


A Dealer in Hope

by ap_trash_compactor



Category: Star Wars: Thrawn - Timothy Zahn
Genre: F/M, arihnda needs a lot of therapy, never forget: the empire is a piece of shit
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-11
Updated: 2019-01-20
Packaged: 2019-03-29 18:31:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 10
Words: 193,929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13932813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ap_trash_compactor/pseuds/ap_trash_compactor
Summary: "In war as in love, to bring things to a close, you must get close together." — Napoleon BonaparteAU: Arihnda Pryce meets Thrawn in a hotel, not a diner, when she needs advice on Higher Skies. As a stone in still water propagates ripples, one change begets others. It turns out that an ambitious political climber and and an ambitious military commander have a great deal to offer each other.(Warnings apply to chs 9, 10)





	1. An Act of Trust

**Author's Note:**

> Thrawn Novel 2017 Canon Only Need Apply (so far as Arihnda's characterization goes); bits of EU are creeping in here and there for Thrawn. We'll see what happens with Rebels when we get to that point in the timeline. :P

_ “The first opinion which one forms of a prince, and of his understanding, is by observing the men he has around him." — Nicolo Machiavelli _

 

 

 

 

He arrives exactly on time. 

 

Arihnda has been in the room for half an hour already, anxious and running over the same precautions again and again. When he lets himself in with the key she's left at reception she jumps, and nearly panics before realizing that he’s disguised himself. 

 

“I almost thought you were a Pantoran,” she says.

 

“That is the intention,” he says. He takes the glasses off and sets them on the little desk next to the bed and looks around carefully. It’s a small room; there’s not much in it, and not much room around the furniture. He’s very tall, she realizes. He seems to take up a great deal of the room.

 

“I've already checked for bugs,” she says quickly. “If I've missed any that should take care of them.” She waves a hand at a little device on the dresser. “At worst anyone monitoring either of us will just assume that this is — ah — a personal…”

 

“That we are having sex,” he says for her.

 

“Yes.” She stands awkwardly in front of the bed, suddenly unsure of this entire idea.

 

“I assume that was not the reason you requested that we meet?” he asks.

 

“No. No! I wouldn’t — did you — I mean did you expect…?”

 

“No, Miss Pryce,” he says calmly. “I am merely curious about your choice of meeting place. I assume you thought this the easiest space to control?”

 

“I…” She does vaguely wonder what it is about her that makes most men treat her as if she were sexless, but it's not a nerve she particularly wants to scrape at, not with the fresh pain of Ottlis’ manipulation still smarting. And it’s really not why she invited him, so what’s the point in feeling stung? “Yes,” she says brusquely, “that's about the size of it. I thought it would be more private than… I don't know, a diner, or something. And I thought it would be easier not to be… if anyone watching me doesn't know exactly who I'm meeting here, and the people watching you don't know who you're meeting here — the ISB will probably assume you’re patronizing a professional, and my… well, it hardly matters what they think, so long as they don’t know it’s you I’m seeing.”

 

“You seem quite certain that we are both being watched.”

 

“Of course I’m certain,” she snaps. “I know from tonight that I am definitely being watched, and I know by whom, and I know why. You’re… Well, you’re you. Any idiot can tell you the ISB has someone watching you, friendship with Yularen or not.”

 

“The fact that we arrived here independently of one another does not mean a determined investigator cannot eventually put the pieces together, assuming they find themselves with sufficient motivation.”

 

“Well, certainly, but it was — it was at least an attempt to take precautions.”

 

“To guard your reputation?”

 

“Well — to hedge against future innuendo, I suppose. And there's your reputation, too.”

 

“How thoughtful of you.” That dry tone might be sarcasm. Or it might not. Arihnda can’t tell.

 

“Well, yes,” she says. “You've done a remarkably good job of avoiding the most salacious stuff, you know. I thought you might… appreciate a little discretion.”

 

“You thought correctly. I have taken a great deal of care to avoid, as you say, the ‘salacious stuff.’”

 

“Yes. Well, I mean, you'd have to, wouldn't you?” she says, mouth running ahead of her brain. She doesn’t feel like herself at all. “The fact that you’re not even human already puts a social target on your back — the wrong kind of reputation with women, or worse yet picking the wrong woman, would wreck any chance for advancement.” She’s looking at the line of his jaw while he speaks. There’s a unaccountable flutter in the pit of her stomach, assertive and distracting. “Although,” she barrels on, her ever-dangerous impulse to interrogate the details of things pushing her a great deal further than is advisable, “a lot of people think you and Mistress Saxon might be —”

 

“We are not.”

 

“Oh. Why not? She's very — not that it's any of my business, of course —”

 

“I dislike her. And she is indiscreet. The latter, in my case, matters even more than the former, for the reasons you have already described.” 

 

_ I’m discreet,  _ Arihnda thinks with a weird flash of pride, as if she's won a little contest. 

 

“I am interested to see you that have put such effort into researching my personal affairs,” Thrawn continues. “I assume you do your due diligence as thoroughly in all things. May I provide any more information for you about my activities?”

 

“No, that’s quite alright, thank y — oh. Oh, no. Of course it's not my business.” 

 

“I assure you I am capable of refusing to answer your questions if I deem them sufficiently inappropriate.”

 

“Oh.” The flutter is still there. “I — wait,  _ sufficiently _ ?”

 

“Yes. Now tell me, Miss Pryce, what did you want to discuss?”

 

She hesitates. “I told you I was being watched.”

 

“Yes.”

 

She sits on the bed. “Well, let me tell you by whom, and why, and how I know.” 

 

She unfolds the story of her evening, of Ottlis and Ghadi and her call to Driller. She omits some of the more embarrassing details — like the reason she went to Ottlis in the first place. Thrawn draws the chair away from the small desk and sits in it, listening patiently until the end. Arihnda feels steadier and steadier as she talks; her story is concise, efficient, and flows naturally — just the way she likes, just like a policy pitch to a Senator. When she finishes, Thrawn asks what she expects him to do about it. He can not, he points out, start firing turbolasers at Ghadi’s office.

 

“I wouldn't mind a little heavy artillery, honestly,” she says, which is both true and a bit of reflexive patter. The back-and-forth feels very much like her advocacy work; it feels comfortable. “This is the second time he's done this to me. You were there last time, actually,” she adds thoughtfully, wondering if he can put it together. “Ascension week, at the Alisandre?”

 

Thrawn frowns, slightly at first, then more deeply after the penny drops. “You did not return to Senator Renking’s company that evening because Moff Ghadi assaulted you?”

 

“Drugged me. Threw a handful of raw spice in my face.”

 

“Had you ever used narcotics recreationally?” 

 

She thinks the question is an insult, rather than an attempt to paint a full picture of events. She reacts with offended pride. “No! No, of course not. I didn't even know what the stuff was, until he told me.”

 

Thrawn is still frowning. “You are lucky it was only the raw form, then,” he says. Then, with more focus, he asks: “You left Senator Renking’s service sometime after. Was that incident related to your decision to do so?”

 

“Decision?” She laughs; it’s bitter and surprised. “No, Commander. I didn't have a choice. Renking fired me.”

 

His frown deepens. “Why?”

 

Arihnda tilts her head quizzically; she wouldn't have thought this part needed explanation. “Because I disappointed him. He sent me to spy on Ghadi, to slip some monitoring software into his network with a data card. Ghadi got the better of me. I failed.”

 

Thrawn raises his eyebrows. “Were you trained as a covert operative, Miss Pryce?”

 

“No, of course not.”

 

“And did you have any warning from Renking or reason to expect Ghadi to turn on you as he did?”

 

“No...”

 

“And Renking sent you alone, as I recall. He did not have any security personnel tail you, or check on you?”

 

She looks at him in puzzlement. “No, why would he?”

 

“Because you were his subordinate and he asked you to go into harm’s way,” he says with perfect seriousness. “As I understand your story, your superior dismissed you from his service because you had the misfortune to be assaulted by a more experienced and better-prepared opponent while attempting to complete a mission for which you had neither adequate training nor adequate preparation, which are faults that lie at the feet of Renking himself, is that not correct?”

 

“I mean, I wouldn't call it a mission, exactly —”

 

“This is not correct behavior from a superior officer.”

 

“It's politics,” she says, nonplussed, as if explaining to an otherwise precocious child that fire is hot. 

 

“Is it? I would call it cowardice. A commander is responsible for the safety of those under his command. Often their safety can not be preserved, but that too is a commander’s burden to carry.”

 

“He wasn't my commander. Politics is you scratch my back, I scratch yours — I didn't scratch him right.” Thrawn is still frowning at her, but he does not say anything. “There's no trust in politics,” she adds, trying to be helpful.

 

“Societies function best if their members trust one another.”

 

“Maybe,” says Arihnda, “but this is Coruscant.”

 

“This meeting is an act of trust.”

 

Now it is her turn to frown at him. She is not sure how to tell him that he is wrong. Worse yet, she is not entirely sure that he is wrong. After a minute where he only watches her with that eerie, thoughtful gaze, she clears her throat. “Well,” she says, “well… I do have a way other than turbolasers for you to help me. Ghadi is selling Doonium illegally from an unregistered vein. He also failed to report a sizable theft from the same vein — for obvious reasons. I have proof here.” She holds out a datacard. “We both know the Empire is Doonium-mad at the moment, though why their purchasing is such a big secret I’ve no idea. Anyway, I was hoping you could help me by taking this to Colonel Yularen. I need it to go to the ISB without anyone  _ except  _ Yularen knowing it’s me who sent it.”

 

“Why is your anonymity so important?”

 

“So that the ISB will know that any accusations made against me by Ghadi are false, but at the same time Ghadi and everyone at Higher Skies will think I’m still useful — Ghadi’s right, Higher Skies  _ is  _ spying on him, and a slew of other Imperial officials, all with serious Doonium interests.”

 

“Your hope is that you can use this information to destroy both Ghadi, who has harmed you, and your companions at Higher Skies, who you feel have betrayed you?”

 

“More or less,” she offers after a slight pause. Her hope is that she can destroy Higher Skies, yes, but the rest of her hope is that she can use the threat of ISB intervention turn Moff Ghadi from looming threat into captive dog. But she’s hardly going to tell Thrawn that. 

 

He raises an eyebrow. “You intend to continue playing the double agent until this matter is resolved?”

 

“I hardly think I have a choice.”

 

“Perhaps not,” he says. He looks at her, consideringly. “So you are not seeking immediate rescue from your predicament? You are not afraid of the path ahead?”

 

“I don’t think it matters how I feel,” she says, which is true. “And I think you can see that I am doing my best to rescue myself, with the tools I have — you being one of them.” 

 

“Indeed. And you thought of all of this only since your meeting with Ghadi?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“And you extricated yourself from your time with him quite effectively, it seems.” He looks her up and down. “Considering your lack of formal training in covert operations, I think you are to be commended for remarkable coolness under pressure. I must also compliment you on the work you have done investigating Moff Ghadi’s mining interests. It seems you have an aptitude for intelligence operations.” 

 

“I — thank you,” she says. She’s mostly surprised to find that his compliment brings her a glow of real pleasure. The flutter in her stomach has returned. “I appreciate that.” 

 

“I have a few lingering questions, however. Bringing false information to the ISB would put me, I am sure you realize, in a most unenviable position.”

 

“Of course,” she says.

 

“Being fired by Senator Renking under the circumstances we have discussed would not engender loyalty to the Empire. You understand that if Higher Skies does indeed house a cell of anti-Imperial agents, the natural assumption for me to make is that you must be one of them.”

 

She takes a breath. “Of course,” she says, “that would be the safe assumption.”

 

“And the safe play would be for me to take this data card,” he holds it aloft between two fingers illustratively, “to Colonel Yularen immediately and allow him to make his own judgement as to your loyalty and honesty.”

 

“Of course,” she says again. “I’ll be happy to answer any questions you have.”

 

“Good. First, please tell me why you chose me to assist you in this matter.”

 

She blinks. She hasn’t got an easy answer for that one. She’d thought of him on instinct, really; when she left Moff Ghadi’s office, her mind had cast about for some solution, and rifling through the scrap paper of her memories for something that spelled safety she’d thought of him almost instantly, for no discernible reason. And then she’d kept thinking about him. She’d remembered his connection to Yularen. Then she’d reasoned out the impetus for his visit to Yinchom, and figured that alone would make her situation interesting to him, and decided to follow her gut. The rest of her plans had coalesced around that initial, reflexive idea, exactly the opposite of logical order.

 

“You’re already investigating Higher Skies, aren’t you?” she asks. “I figured that was why you were at Yinchom. And I remembered you and Yularen being friendly at the Alisandre. I thought you’d be useful — and interested.”

 

“Indeed. Now please tell me how you came into your present employment.”

 

“Well, Juahir and Driller offered me a job.”

 

“And you accepted.”

 

She bites back a pointless, sarcastic rejoinder. “The job I had wasn’t very satisfying,” she says instead.

 

“What job was that?”

 

“I was working at a Citizens’ Assistance Office.”

 

He considers her for a long minute after this. Finally, he says: “You pursue government jobs, it seems.” This might be a point in her favor: the action of a loyal citizen who believes in the government and wants to be part of it. Or it might be a mark against her: the action of a dedicated anti-imperial agitator, seeking the best access to her targets.

 

“Imperial service is a road to advancement,” she says with perfect honesty. What’s wrong with wanting to have control of your own destiny? To decide your fate, instead of having your fate handed down to you by Senators and Governors and Moffs? If he thinks less of her for that, she decides, that’s a flaw in him. “But the Assistance Office turned out to be a bit of a dead end,” she continues. “I thought an advocacy group might help me make better connections.”

 

“And has it?” he asks dryly.

 

“Yes and no,” she says after a moment, her own voice just as dry.

 

“And how long have you been at Higher Skies?”

 

“About a year.”

 

“And how long were you are the Assistance Office?”

 

“About a year,” she says again.

 

He raises both eyebrows, just a little. “Senator Renking dismissed you with a recommendation? It did not sound so amicable.”

 

Arihnda snorts. “Recommendation? Hardly.”

 

“Imperial employment is difficult to come by without one,” says Thrawn. He does go not so far as to ask the rest of the question outright.

 

Smirking, Arihnda says: “You’re right about that. But I managed well enough.” And then, still smirking, because she really is quite proud of how she managed it, she tells him about how she’d walked into the Citizens’ Assistance Office a mere three days after being fired and in fewer than eight hours managed to find the weakest member of the office, engineer their dismissal, and take their job.

 

Thrawn raises one sleek brow, archly. “Clever,” he murmurs. 

 

His tone is not exactly complimentary, but it’s got a grudging sort of respect, and Arihnda flushes with pleasure. “Thank you,” she says. The flutter in her stomach rustles happily away.

 

“I have only one other question,” he says. He pauses a moment before asking it, observing her with a closed and very serious expression. “You said Moff Ghadi assaulted you once before. Yet you went to his office when his bodyguard, Ottlis Dos, invited you. Why was that?”

 

The pleasant flutter in her stomach dies abruptly. Arihnda looks away from him. She feels suddenly ill.

 

“I didn’t know he worked for Ghadi,” she snaps. This in itself is embarrassing.

 

Thrawn arches an eyebrow again. “That seems careless of you, Miss Pryce. You did not make an effort to ascertain his employer before accepting his invitation?”

 

She flushes, an ugly thing, and does not answer.

 

“Miss Pryce?” he prompts.

 

“We train at Yinchom together,” she says, shortly. She wants very badly to move on from this topic.

 

“Yes.” There is a period of silence, and then he prompts her again. “That does still not answer my question, Miss Pryce,” he says softly — softly, but not at all gently. She shivers.

 

“He… He invited me — he said, for a late-night training session.”  _ Kriffing hell, _ she thinks,  _ it really does sound stupid. Stupid, Arihnda, stupid. Kriffing stupid. _

 

“A late-night training session,” he repeats softly. “At his employer’s offices. Miss Pryce. Please do not insult me.” His voice is low and dangerous.

 

“I’m not.” She looks at him fiercely. “I am telling you exactly what he said.”

 

Thrawn raises his eyebrows — both of them this time. “Assuming this is true,” he says cooly, “you believed him? Why?”

 

Arihnda looks down at her knees, which are clamped together like a schoolgirl’s. Her face burns like a brand. Sitting in a cheap hotel room, perched on the end of a cheap bed, admitting how Ottlis had put a finger on the pulse of all her sad little wants and then played her for a fool, is worse by far than everything else. 

 

“I thought it was personal,” she says finally. Her voice is rough and sharp and high and small at once. She has to swallow hard against sudden tears. So what if Ottlis was the first time in however long she’d wanted to try — dating, or whatever, or anything, with some man again? Why shouldn’t she want what everyone else wants? “I thought it was personal,” she says again, suddenly angry. She looks up at him, chin high.

 

He is watching her with an obscure expression. There is a long silence. “Ah,” he says at length. It is a sympathetic sound. Somehow this hurts her worse than disbelief. “I understand perfectly.” Then, after a longer pause, he says: “I am sorry, Miss Pryce.” 

 

“It’s fine,” she mutters, looking past him. “It’s really fine.”

 

“Is it?”

 

“Yes. I should have known.”

 

“There have been other Ottlises.” It is not a question.

 

Her face burns very bright indeed. “Yes,” she allows after a sullen moment.

 

“All beings sometimes act from hope.” He says it carefully. It lands like a slap in her face. 

 

“I should have learned about that, too,” she mutters sourly. Then she adds, because she doesn’t seem to be able to stop her mouth in the right place today: “This isn’t exactly my strong suit.”

 

“No?”

 

“No. I mean, I’ve tried — really, I’ve tried,” she says like it's important he believe her, like she's defending herself, “I have, but I think… I think I’m just not good at… any of that.” It’s somehow a relief to say it out loud. She’s good at many things. Thrawn has even listed some of them for her, which was pleasant to hear. Why does she need to be good at this, too?

 

“Perhaps you have tried with the wrong partners,” he says, abstracted and dispassionate. It sounds like a detached bit of speculation: just another data point for him to incorporate into whatever mental file he’s keeping on her. He obviously has one or he probably wouldn't be here. And this is what he does, anyway: analyzes. Arihnda knows this. The flutter in her stomach returns anyway, horrendously frantic, almost like hope. Thrawn’s expression remains obscure. The moment drags on. Finally, Thrawn says: “For what it is worth, I think you have been mistreated in this. By Renking, by Ghadi, by Ottlis, and by your so-called friends at Higher Skies. I do not think this is a personal fault of yours. I am sorry that these are the circumstances that should bring you to me. I am impressed by the way you have navigated these events thus far. And yes, I will help you.”

 

She takes a deep breath. “You will?”

 

“I will. But you must understand that I will help you only when  _ I  _ feel the time is appropriate.”

 

“What does that mean?”

 

“Consider what you have told me. You know I can be valuable because I have a friend in the ISB. Do you think it is possible Ghadi is without friends of his own?”

 

“No,” she says. Of course she thinks Ghadi has an informant in the ISB. Said informant, whoever they are, is crucial to Arihnda’s plan for slipping a leash around Ghadi’s neck.

 

“And if I bring this information to Colonel Yularen and it sits around in some ISB databank, how long do you think it will be until this friend of Ghadi’s finds out about it? And when he does, your safety will be jeopardized again — much more severely. No, this cannot be handed over to the ISB until it is of immediate actionable value. If you wish you catch both Ghadi and Higher Skies in one fell swoop you must set the trap yourself  _ before  _ I give this information to Yularen. Or you must return to your role as double-agent and trust me to choose the moment to make use of this data.”

 

She frowns at him. This is precisely the opposite of what she wants, although given what he believes her goals to be, his advice is perfectly sound. She’ll have to figure some way of making him do what she wants anyway.  “What if I told you I didn’t mind the risk — that I think you should hand it over now, no matter what it costs me?”

 

“Then you are lucky that I am more cautious of your well-being than you are yourself, Miss Pryce. And you have discounted that there is a risk to me, as well.”

 

“What if I make it worth your while to do things my way?”

 

“A bribe?”

 

“A backscratch. This is how Coruscant works.”

 

“This is not how I work.”

 

“No? Maybe I can change your mind. I know a lot of the right people, and there are two ways I can use them to help you. First: I can get your ship off the bottom of the list for every repair. Second: I can help you and your aide get promotions on the schedule you both deserve.”

 

He raises his eyebrows. “Explain.”

 

She does.

 

By the end, he looks distinctly angry. 

 

“Everything you have described points to a wildly dysfunctional military which will collapse on itself if faced with any threat more serious than piracy,” Thrawn says, voice icy and somewhat more forceful than she’s used to.

 

“Probably,” agrees Arihnda. She ignores his displeasure; it is not directed at her personally, and is therefore irrelevant. “But that’s hardly my point.”

 

“You are telling me that within your government, even the most practical and consequential decisions of military operations are decided by personal vendetta.”

 

“Yes,” she says. “Obviously. And it’s your government now, too,” she continues, “so you’d better figure out how to get along with it, or get yourself a friend who knows how to operate in it.”

 

“A friend like you, Miss Pyrce?”

 

“Maybe.  _ If you help me.”  _

 

“Miss Pryce, I  _ am  _ willing to help you. I am not, however, willing to do something that I feel is dangerous and unwise simply because it is what you would prefer me to do. I believe you are capable of understanding the difference?”

 

She looks away sullenly, then back at him. “Yes,” she says.

 

“Good. Now, while I appreciate your explanation of my and Vanto’s position in the broader scheme of Coruscanti politics, I am unwilling to take this information to Yularen until such time as I deem it safe — for myself, of course, but also for you. If, on the other hand, you can think of an alternate way of leveraging this information, I am happy to let you decide when and how to use it. I recommend that you think a little longer on what route is best. You may place this problem back in my hands at any time you wish, if you do not find a satisfactory alternative solution. I will be happy to dispose of it for you, safely.”

 

“That’s it?"

 

“That is, Miss Pryce.”

 

“You haven’t asked me to do anything about the  _ Thunder Wasp _ . Or Vanto’s promotions.”

 

“No, I have not.”

 

“You don’t really understand the concept of mutual benefit, do you?”

 

“I understand it perfectly. And I believe we have benefitted each other. You know you have an ally against both Ghadi and Higher Skies should you need one, and I understand the operational parameters of my mission in the Navy much more fully than I did before, information which is valuable to me without my asking you to do anything particular on my behalf.”

 

“Oh,” she says. She’ll either have to tell him that she wants to make Ghadi into a lap dog, which is out of the question; or let him do this his way, which is also out of the question; or find her own alternative path. She’s capable of that. And he’s still a good backup plan, in any case. It’s at least good to know he’ll answer her calls. If she didn’t get precisely what she hoped for tonight, that’s fine. She’s sure he’ll be useful in the future, eventually, somehow. “I guess… I guess that’s it then?” she repeats herself.

 

“It would seem so,” he says. “I hope you feel I have been helpful.”

 

“Yes,” she says. “Yes, you’ve been most helpful.”

 

He makes no move from his seat, however. Instead, he watches her with the same pensive expression he’d had when she told him the truth about Ottlis. It makes her shift uncomfortably on the end of the bed.

 

“And am I better company than Ottlis Dos?” he asks at last. There is something difficult to read on his face, and in his tone; the comment could be a joke, or — it’s probably a joke.

 

“Yes,” she says flatly. “You are better company than Ottlis.”

 

He is still watching her with that obscure expression. Perhaps it wasn’t a joke? She sits on the bed, stomach churning oddly, and watches him back. It goes on for what feels like a very long time before he finally speaks again. “Miss Pryce — if I may, I have a proposition of my own,” he says. “It is somewhat more delicate than yours. Before I describe it, I wish you to understand that my willingness to help you in other areas is in no way predicted on your response.”

 

“I…” she stares at him, baffled. “Sure, alright.”

 

“It is important that you are clear on this point because I require that you give an honest answer. Do you understand?”

 

“Yes,” she says with more confidence. “I think I do.”

 

“And you believe that I mean what I say, when I tell you your answer will in no way change my willingness to assist you with Higher Skies, should you decide that is what you want?”

 

This is easy to answer. “Yes. I do,” she says. And she does.

 

He looks at her face carefully, as if looking to be sure she is telling the truth. “Very well,” he says at last. “For context, let us review. This evening, you brought me a problem of yours with which you felt I could assist; you found problems of mine with which you felt you might be helpful in return.”

 

“Yes,” she says.

 

“This conversation was fruitful for us both.”

 

“Yes,” she agrees.

 

“We also discussed another, personal, difficulty of yours: namely, your inability to find suitable sexual partners.” 

 

She blanches. “I —” she says, voice suddenly quite high. “I — That is not how I would phrase —”

 

Thrawn holds up a hand. “We also mentioned some of the… complications… that present me with a similar challenge.” He pauses. “I wonder if this is not also an area in which we might assist one another.” 

 

Arihnda only stares. Her heart is beating wildly, suddenly. Whatever she expected, it wasn't this. “I need a minute to think about it,” she manages at last.

 

“Of course,” he says. And then he adds: “You are obviously free to say no.”

 

“I know that,” she says. And she does know it — she's more than free to say no. Meeting her here at her behest is one thing; making this suggestion is something else entirely. He’s handed her a weapon she could use to ruin him, if she really wanted to. She knows Senators and Moffs who would drop to their knees in ecstasy and kiss her feet and  _ beg  _ for the chance to turn poor Arihnda Pryce, innocent victim, into a star of the holonet news circuit, the face a story that would leave Thrawn bloodied and broken in the gutter of public opinion and leave every other alien in Imperial service so much the worse for it. She could make a career from it, if she wanted. She could make a  _ life _ from it, if she wanted.

 

_ If _ she wanted.

 

He must know this. He does know this. So why would he risk it? She thinks of the way Thrawn clings to Vanto, his benighted aide, making the same request for a translator over and over whenever assignments get shuffled around, even though it's obvious he doesn’t need one. And does Thrawn even have friends besides Yularen? He's the only one of his kind in the Empire that she knows of, maybe the only one in the Galaxy, and with the way Imperials are about non-human species —  _ Oh, God _ , Arihnda thinks, that parochial Outer Rim exclamation coming back to her like a first language,  _ God, maybe he’s lonely _ . 

 

Arihnda knows what it is to be lonely.

 

But that's not enough, on its own, for someone as intelligent and controlled as he is. He’s obviously cautious in this area. Discretion mattered to him, he’d said as much. But he'd also said —  _ I dislike her,  _ he’d said about his rumored paramour _.  _ So that mattered, too. He wouldn't make this offer to just anyone. But he’d made this offer to her, and that meant, maybe — Maybe that meant — 

 

He’d come here virtually at the drop of a hat. She’d been prepared to wheedle and bribe and persuade and cajole when she decided to send him a note. She'd been prepared for skepticism and resistance and doubt, but in the end all that had happened was that he had called her on a very cleverly secured line. Called her very quickly, too. Probably the instant he’d read her message.  _ Miss Pryce,  _ he’d said, _ you are well? Good. Where and when shall I meet you?  _ That had been it. Of course she’d assumed it had been because of his interest in Higher Skies, but maybe there was more to it than that. Maybe, just maybe —

 

“Perhaps you should consider it at greater length, and let me know your decision at some other time?” He says it carefully, tone very hard to read. She blinks and finds his face is hard to read as well; she has been thinking for longer than she realized. He lets his comment hang a moment, then reaches for his glasses. 

 

Somehow, the realization that he is going to leave her if she says nothing settles the question. Better to leap than to die looking.

 

“Wait,” she says.

 

He sets the glasses down.

 

“I have the room already.” He says nothing. “I mean… we might as well… we can try, can’t we? We’ll just give it a try and if we’re a good fit then — we might not even like each other. It’s not like I need to get ready or anything; I’m on the normal course of biosuppressants and I already thought I was going to —” she turns crimson, barrels ahead anyway — “I mean, earlier, before Ghadi — anyway, we already have the room so we’ll just stay and give it a try. Alright?”

 

He gives her a strange look. It's not really approval. The silence goes on for an uncomfortable interval. The words  _ I did necessarily not mean tonight  _ hang unspoken in the air. But in the end, he only says, slowly: “Yes. That is alright.”

 

Then she continues to sit blankly on the edge of the bed and do nothing. She doesn't feel much of anything except a sort of nervous anxiety. The flutter in her stomach is gone, overpowered by a kind of shock at the her own behavior.

 

After a long moment, Thrawn frowns. “Perhaps I should undress?” he offers. Arihnda thinks she can hear the words  _ you are indeed bad at this _ lurking under his tone.

 

“Oh —” she says — “oh, yes, me too.”

 

“Perhaps you should wait until you are more… comfortable.”

 

“I… should I? You’re just going to stand around naked and wait for me to get used to you?”

 

He watches her a moment before replying. He speaks slowly, and each word seems delicately chosen. “I suspect, given some of the things you have described for me, it would be safest for us both if I took care to help you feel… at ease.”

 

Arihnda, who in spite of everything has still not begun to think of herself as a dangerous person, isn't entirely sure what this means. “Do you…” she hesitates. “Will I have to… Do you look… Do you look human?”

 

“Color aside? Yes.”

 

“Oh.”

 

“Were you hoping for something more salacious?” It’s said very dryly, but there’s a note of seriousness around the edges.

 

“No! I mean — not that I would — if you were, not that I would —”

 

“Miss Pryce.”

 

“Are you going to keep calling me that?”

 

“Should I not?” 

 

_ Well aren't you clever, Arihnda,  _ she thinks to herself nastily. Obviously he trusts her discretion, which is complimentary, but apparently any speculation beyond that was just that: speculation. “It’s… it’s fine,” she says

 

He frowns at her, decides to let the lie slip by. “Very well,” he says. And without preamble or any sort of fuss, he stands and strips as efficiently as if he were getting ready to shower on a Navy ship. Arihnda feels awkward not taking anything off herself, so she bends down and undoes her shoes, and takes a long time about it — but she’s strangely glad she doesn’t have to take off anything more than that.

 

When she sits up, he’s completely naked.

 

She stares at him stupidly. The flutter in her stomach is back — more than back. It’s summersaults, really. He's very fit, which isn't a surprise exactly, but there's a difference between knowing and seeing. He’s very finely made, too. He’s not musclebound like some of the guards she trains with. He’s strong, but lithe — proportional, her mind supplies the word. Every part of him is in elegant, harmonious proportion with every other, including his flaccid cock, which does indeed look perfectly human, color aside. Her eyes rest there maybe a moment longer than any other place, but she looks everywhere. Her eyes wander over his limbs, chest, shoulders, neck — “You don’t have any hair,” she says when she meets his eyes.

 

“No,” he agrees.

 

“Do you… shave?”

 

“No. I am just like this.”

 

“Oh,” she says. “I’m not.”

 

“I am familiar with most of the basics of human bodies.”

 

“Oh.”

 

“There are very few secrets onboard ship, not even between the sexes.”

 

“Oh, of course.”

 

“And the differences between our species are not so many.”

 

“I can see that.”

 

He doesn’t say anything. 

 

“I mean,” she says, without even understanding why she’s continuing to talk about it, “I’m more like you, today.” He still doesn’t say anything. “I went to an esthetician,” she continues.

 

“For Ottlis,” he says at length.

 

“Yes,” she says, voice a little bitter and a little sad. “For Ottlis.” Somehow she feels better knowing that he knows — not only how she will look, but why. And that it is unusual, for her.

 

“I am not Ottlis,” he says softly.

 

“I know.” And then she stands. The room is so small that they are within arm’s reach of each other. She half-reaches for him, draws her hand back. “Can I — do you mind if — may I touch you?”

 

He raises his eyebrows. “We could hardly progress further if I said no,” he says.

 

“Right.” She reaches out again, eyes set fixedly on his chest, and after only the briefest hesitation, she brushes her fingers against him — and then pulls her hand back quickly. 

 

His skin is decidedly not human. 

 

She glances at his face, which is still carefully neutral — though she wonders if it doesn’t look just a little more strained. She wonders if perhaps her skittishness appears as revulsion, or rejection. “Sorry,” she mutters, and she puts her hand back, palm flat above the place where she imagines his heart must be. His skin feels sturdier than human skin, but not tough or coarse —touching him is like touching fine, expensive crossgrain leather, the kind that's used in luxury items it would cost her whole year’s salary to buy. It's strange to feel this texture on a living being, to feel it warm and animated by his blood and breath just below the surface — strange, but not unpleasant. She puts her other hand on his chest, slides her hands up and across his shoulders, down his arms, back up to his shoulders — “Sorry,” she says again, voice a little muddled, “it's just… you feel different.”

 

“I imagine that I do.”

 

She peers at him, suddenly curious. “How do I feel to you?” she asks.

 

He takes her by the wrist, and, observing her arm attentively, trails his fingers lightly across the inside of her forearm. It's more tease than touch, and it makes her shiver. Then he looks at her face, and tugs her one step closer. She moves obediently for him. It is not her normal mode with men but it is, she is starting to discover, a natural-feeling mode with  _ him. _ He places his fingers gently on her face and runs them over the ridge of her cheekbone, trails them down her throat, skims her collarbone and décolletage, traces a path back up to her shoulder, back to her throat — he stops with his hand curved around the base of her neck. His thumb is pressed to the dip where her throat meets her collarbone and she can feel her pulse beneath the pressure of his touch. “You are soft,” he says.

 

“Am I?” she asks. She’d like like him to describe her a little more; she likes the way he talks about her.

 

“Yes,” he says. “You are — I believe the expression is ‘pleasant to the touch.’”

 

“Oh,” she says. She swallows and he rubs his thumb lightly against her throat, tracing the action of her esophagus. “I…” she says “I should probably take off my clothes.”

 

“No need to rush.”

 

“I’m not rushing,” she says defensively. She wants to take off her clothes with the same kind of business-like efficiency he did, mannerisms that say  _ this is easy for me,  _ but she fumbles with the top button on her shirt, exhales sharply in frustration, starts again. 

 

He catches her hands. “Perhaps we should discuss —”

 

And that's perfectly awful. It's absolutely the last thing she wants. “No,” she says. “No, let's just — this isn't hyperdrive engineering. Let's just give it a try. I’ll tell you to stop if I need to, alright?”

 

He gives her a very long look, hands still curled around hers, before answering. “It would probably work better the other way,” he says carefully.

 

“I don't want to talk about it,” she says sharply. And she doesn't. She doesn't ever want to talk about it; talking is so much kriffing work. “I just want to —” With effort, she softens her voice. “Can't we at least try?”

 

He gives her another long look, and finally says: “Yes. We can try.”

 

“Good. Now just let me —”

 

She moves her hands a little but he doesn't let them go. “Would you allow me?” he asks.

 

“Yes,” she says after an uncertain moment.

 

Her moves her hands to her sides and comes one step closer. There's barely a foot between them. He starts on the buttons of her shirt, undoes them by touch, studies her face while he does.

 

No one has ever undressed her like this before. She’s used to men who come at her fast and selfish, jerking themselves off while muttering how much they want to fuck her, yanking her pants down just for the last few moments of their own pleasure, or men who come at her like oil slicks, oozing fake compliments and inviting her to do all the work herself. She’d learned to start ordering both types around, if only out of self-preservation. 

 

She’d hoped for something different from Ottlis.

 

She doesn’t even have a frame of reference for Thrawn. 

 

When the buttons are undone he slips her shirt off her shoulders and she shivers. He stops, seeing whatever details his strange eyes must see, secrets she doesn’t even know she’s giving away. “The room is not too cold?” She thinks he knows it’s not; he’s confirming something, or giving her a chance to keep her clothing on.

 

“No,” she says, “it’s not.”

 

He takes her shirt off the rest of the way, walking behind her to do it. Then he undoes her bra, slides the straps forward over her arms. His arms are longer than hers, long enough that he can stretch his fingertips past hers if he presses his chest against her back, which he does. He is both taller and broader than she is and he makes her feel delicate and vulnerable by comparison — something she usually works to avoid, but which she does not entirely dislike in this specific context.

 

He glides his hands back along her arms, then takes her by the shoulders and turns her to face him. He undoes her slacks by touch alone, and lets them drop. He hooks his thumbs into the top of her underwear. “This too?” he asks. She nods. He slides them down her legs, kneeling before her as he does. He pauses with his hands on the ground and presses his mouth briefly to the side of her knee. Between her legs her cunt is beginning to a hum a tune that goes  _ touch me touch me touch me _ . 

 

Standing, he takes both her hands in his and places them on his shoulders. He puts his hands on her waist and draws her close. For a moment they only stand like this, observing each other. Then, partly out of curiosity and partly because she wants to be held for a moment without having to  _ look  _ and to  _ think _ , Arihnda puts her face against his neck and inhales. His scent reminds her of white pepper and cedar and salt. She stays like this for a minute, until he speaks. She can feel the vibration of his voice against her cheek. “Shall we move on from this?” he asks.

 

“Mm,” she says.

 

With one hand, he cups the back of her head, then slides his hand a little higher, to the crown of her skull, where her hair is long enough for him to twist his fingers slowly in it. He twines a fistful of her hair carefully into his grasp, just firmly enough to put a steady pressure on her scalp, not nearly hard enough to hurt, and tilts her head back. His hand is steady and sure, more brace and guide than taskmaster, something for her to lean against as much as something to direct her. She finds she likes it very much. It is easier, much easier, than trying to give orders herself. She decides she’s going to let her hair grow out a little more, so he doesn’t have to work so hard to to get a fistful of it in the future — then she stops herself from dreaming any more about the future. There is more than enough happening in the present. He is looking at her intently and she thinks he is going to kiss her mouth, which she suddenly finds she wants a very great deal — which is strange, because she's usually not much for kissing. But as he moves his face close to hers she finds she feels afraid, too, for no reason that she can identify, and she stiffens and takes a sharp breath. She doesn't mean to, but she does. He stops, pulls back, looks at her quizzically and loosens his grip on her hair — “No,” she says, not wanting him to let go. “No, it's alright. Don't stop.” 

 

He scans her face, doesn't say anything, then lowers his head towards her again. She’s ready, this time; she lets her eyes flutter closed. He dips his head low and presses his mouth to the hollow of her throat, instead. Her eyes open in surprise, but what he does with his mouth feels good enough that soon they drift closed again.

 

He devotes a great deal of attention to her neck, to the line of her collarbone, to the top of her chest, all of which requires to him to bend low, curving his spine almost like a question mark while she stands obediently for him and lets a soft, warm desire for  _ more _ pool slowly between her legs. Eventually, sighing, she slides her hands from his shoulders and around the back of his neck, stroking her fingers through through the hair at the base of his skull. This earns a groan from him, which she can feel inside her own throat, and the sensation goes directly to her cunt. She moans softly in return.

 

As if on cue, he dips his fingers between her legs and strokes the soft skin there with a light, sure touch. It makes her gasp a little. He moves his fingers there again, and again, unhurried, and keeps doing it, a light, repetitive motion that puts teasing indirect pressure on places she’d much prefer for him to touch directly. She grinds her hips a little, trying to get more friction, more anything, than that soft and gentle stroke - and his hand stops moving entirely, and so does his mouth, pressed into the hollow of her collarbone. The hand he has fisted in her hair, keeping her head cranked back and her chest open for him, tightens, and between her legs he simply cups his palm against her and waits until, with a frustrated puff of breath and small stamp of her foot, she stops moving.

 

Then he starts again: mouth moving steadily along her throat, two fingers caressing lightly between her legs — which is simply not enough, and not fair. She grabs his hand with the intention of pushing his two teasing fingers inside herself and he twists his hand and catches her by the wrist. He pulls his head up and away from her so he can look her in the eye.

 

“Impatient,” he murmurs.

 

“I — what’s wrong with that?” she asks, whiny and defensive. 

 

When he answers her, she hears that his accent seems slightly more pronounced than usual. “A suggestion: allow me to... “ he searches for the word, finds it: “instruct you.”

 

There is definitely something unnerving about the intensity of his gaze. “Alright,” she says. “Alright. How… how do you want to do that?”

 

There is a short but awful pause where Arihnda feels a tingle of uncertainty. Then he lets his hand out of her hair and slides it down to the middle of her back, pulling her torso flush against his. The expression on his face softens a bit; it is like he is catching his breath, or remembering that he is new to her. He loosens his grip on her wrist, slides his thumb into the hollow of her palm and makes a slow, gentle circle there. He speaks slowly, too, putting the right words into the right order. “The expression is ‘patience is a virtue,’ yes?” he murmurs.

 

“Yes,” she whispers back. 

 

He twists her hand in his and presses it to his chest, keeps it cradled there with his own When he speaks again, he seems more himself. His accent is more subdued, words more fluid. He watches her closely as he speaks; his own expression is quite somber. “Virtue is to be rewarded. Let me decide what to do. Don’t… rush. I will... show you what is good about patience.” He frowns a little. “You trust me? You may tell me to stop —”

 

“I trust you,” she says. Her voice is very clear. She finds it is a surprisingly easy answer to give.

 

“Good.” He steps away from her, so they are no longer touching. “Close your eyes.”

 

She opens her mouth to object and he raises an eyebrow. “Alright, alright” she mutters, and she closes her eyes. 

 

After a few moments, which feel entirely too long, he begins to touch her, softly. First in one spot, then another. It is like he is building a schematic of her body. He finds a spot that gives some response he likes, moves on from it, comes back as if to test it. It feels good, most of it feels very good, some of it even draws involuntary sounds from her mouth, which she tries to suppress  — she can’t always manage that, though. She can’t manage it, for instance, when he finds some marvelous point on the back of her neck that makes her moan in pleasure and surprise. Moments like this aside, Arihnda feels less and less patient by the minute. She’s as turned on as she usually is before sex — more, really — and she wants to get on with it. Finally, while he’s running a finger languidly down her arm, she opens her eyes.

 

“Are you done?”

 

He raises his eyebrows. “Still impatient,” he says.

 

“I’m  _ being _ patient,” she says, petulantly. “I  _ have  _ been patient. I don’t feel very rewarded.”

 

“No?”

 

“ _ No _ ,” she says.

 

He eyes her levelly and says: “Turn around.”

 

She tries to stare him down, then sourly complies instead. He wraps one arm around her waist, holding her a little more firmly than she thinks is really necessary. She can feel his cock, half-hard, against her backside, which is of course the reward she  _ really  _ wants, she’s already starting to feel agitated by the desire to have something,  _ anything, kriffing hell,  _ fill the gently aching space between her legs, and she’s got half a mind to just demand it. But she closes her eyes and huffs instead. He slides his other hand slowly up her side and around her breast, cupping it gently and brushing his thumb back and forth across her nipple, which feels nice, certainly; he presses his mouth her shoulder, then trails a line of kisses towards her neck, which also feels quite pleasant; he leaves a more lingering kiss on the place where her neck and shoulder meet, which makes her sigh softly and lean back against him in spite of herself; and then he finds that  _ spot  _ on the back of her neck again. 

 

What he does to it, something sudden and forceful with his tongue, does more to her than it has any right to. She cries out in astonishment, grabs at her own chest and clutches his hand against her breast, and it turns out to be a good thing he’s holding her around the middle so tightly because,  _ God _ , whatever that spot is — she didn’t know it even  _ existed  _ before he found it — whatever it is it makes her weak in the knees when he presses it like that. Then it’s over just as suddenly, and she’s standing weakly, leaning into him, taking a shaking breath. His arm is still tight around her waist, his hand on her breast is still there, warm and firm beneath her own, and his mouth is pressed to her ear. “A reward,” he murmurs, tone dripping with smug irony.

 

“Yes,” she whines at last, loosening her hand from his. “Yes —” she tries to twist her head to look at him. “How… how did you —”

 

“I…” he is searching for the right words again. “I pay attention,” he says finally. He lifts his hand from her breast to her face and runs his thumb along her mouth, which makes her whine softly. She wants him to kiss her mouth. Instead, he presses his lips against her ear again. “Now be patient,” he whispers.

 

She shivers. “Yes,” she says, voice high and strained. “Yes, alright, yes.” If that’s the reward for patience, she can be patient. She can make herself be patient.

 

“Close your eyes.”

 

She obeys. After a minute he takes his arm from around her and steps away. When he resumes his careful exploration, Arihnda does not complain. He explores her everywhere, with his fingers, and his lips, and sometimes his tongue. 

 

Some of what he does is simply bizarre, and possibly only for his own amusement. At one point he makes her lift one of her arms high above her head and licks her armpit, which makes her shriek and snap her arm down. Her eyes open in surprise and she sees him laughing silently before he reaches for her face and gently brushes a hand across her brow, coaxing her eyes closed again.

 

Some of it drives her half out of her skull. At one point he kneels before her and, holding her hips gently, trails soft kisses across her belly. It stops her breath and makes a strange, tender heat bloom in her body unlike anything she’s ever felt before. Her heart squeezes, aching, in her chest, her palms tingle madly, her toes curl, her cunt feels electric — lost in an instinctive reverie, she places her hands gently on his head, as if in an act of worship, and bends over him, as if to kiss his face. He looks up at her, somber and curious and utterly willing, and she stops, suddenly afraid of herself, and of what she feels. “Nevermind,” she mutters, taking her hands off his head and closing her eyes again.

 

He doesn’t kiss her at all after that, not anywhere. But he still does wonderful, unfair things with his fingers. When he is ready to move on from this, her mind feels like slush. 

 

“Look at me,” he says. She opens her eyes; she needs a moment to focus properly. “The bed?”

 

She nods several times in quick, enthusiastic succession.

 

He turns her around and pushes her face down onto it. No movement he makes is sudden or abrupt: you will do this, now, he says with the firm persuasion of his hands, and now you will do this, and now this. 

 

He grasps her hips with both hands and lifts, just enough for her to take the hint. She scrambles forward, muttering “yes, yes, alright, yes.” The ache inside of her is so bad that it really, truly hurts. She can feel the slick wetness of her cunt oozing down her thighs where they rub together. No one has ever coaxed into such a state; she’s never even managed it for herself.

 

He lets her crawl forward, but not very far; he stops her with her ankles still hanging off the edge of the bed. She is on all fours. He takes one hand from her hips and places it flat between her shoulder blades and presses down, steady and relentless until she bends her arms and lowers her chest to the mattress. It’s a painful pose, exactly like the chin-knees-and-chest bodyweight exercise they do at Yinchom, and she groans uncomfortably as her chest and neck press into the mattress.

 

He grips her hips firmly again and pulls her backwards towards him. She lets her arms unfold before her as he does, until she is where he wants: hips high, back concave, chest and neck and face pressed into the bed, arms stretched out before her as if in supplication.

 

The curve in her back is so extreme that it hurts, and she feels very exposed, much more than she usually does on all fours, and for a half a moment she wants tuck her knees under herself and call everything off — but the aching pulse in her cunt has other ideas, and she stretches her hips back instead. She discovers as she stretches that there’s something she likes about the dramatic angles of her body in this pose. But she doesn’t want to wait like this forever. “I’ve been patient,” she gasps into the mattress. She doesn’t know what he’s doing back there, except maybe watching her suffer. “I've been good.” 

 

“Yes,” he agrees, in that soft and musical accent, “you have.” He runs two fingers lightly along either side of the slick, puffy ridges of her labia and she gasps.

 

His fingers slip lightly across her cunt, stroking, teasing — he runs a fingertip lightly over her clit, not nearly firm enough to give her any relief but more than enough to send a spark through her, and she whines like a starving animal. “Please,” she gasps, and wiggles her hips in frustration, but she doesn’t explain the rest of what she wants. He keeps exploring the outside of her cunt, moving his fingertips against her in different ways. Some touches bring more response than others. The lightest ones, paradoxically, receive the biggest reactions. Eventually he uses only those, until she is whimpering pitifully, cunt twitching hungrily around nothing.

 

He stops, leans over her, brushes her hair off her cheek. She can feel his erection rubbing her thigh and for a moment she can’t feel anything else: there is only the feel of the one thing, the only thing, she wants, and a crazed animal desire in her head screaming  _ fuck me fuck me fuck me _ . She wiggles against him briefly, a small, involuntary motion, and he tightens the one hand that is still on her hip as if to say  _ stop.  _ “Oh, please,” she moans. “I’ve been patient.” His other hand is still against her face; his fingers brush the skin of her cheek gently, in a way that sends a warm, tingling current running through all her nerves. 

 

“Yes. You are good.” he says gently, accent the worst she’s ever heard it: consonants too soft, vowels too lyrical, and everything with twice as much breath as it needs. 

 

“Yes I am,” she whines, breathless and feverish. “I’m good. Now,  _ please. _ ”

 

“Yes,” he says again. Then he disappears behind her and after just a moment, such an unfair moment, he slides two fingers inside her and curls them downward and scrapes them back in a way that makes her gasp with deep surprise. Men have put their fingers inside her before, but none has ever done it half so well. He does it again, and again, steadily, then slightly faster, and slightly faster than that, and it feels good at first, and then it feels better, steadily better, and better, and better, and her cunt is swollen with the almost-there feeling of an orgasm that’s just out of reach — and it’s suddenly too much, too quickly. This is what she wants, but the feeling rising inside her is one of being out of control, too, not just one of pleasure, and it’s a frightening thing — she loses the moment. It's awful, like cold water, like playing yourself like a fool, like every frustration there is. “Stop,” she whines desperately, pulling her arms back under her shoulders and trying to push herself up. “Stop, stop, stop.”

 

He does; first with his fingers inside her and, after a short moment during which she lifts herself up on to her elbows and says “stop” again, without touching her anywhere at all. Arihnda takes a breath and pushes herself all the way up, sits back on her heels. She turns her head, speaking over her shoulder without looking at him. “Sorry,” she says, and she means it. She’s frustrated with herself, mostly, but she feels a little guilty, too, at having thrown away the good work he’s already done for her, even if she didn’t mean to. Even if she didn’t want to. “I just need a minute.” This happens to her, or some version of it, more often than not, no matter how much she wants, no matter how hard she tries. She always ends up fighting. There are things she wants from fucking besides orgasms but she always tries to cum anyway, and it's always a monstrous frustration. She’d thought it was her partners who were the reason she almost never managed except under her own power, but perhaps, she thinks unhappily, there’s just something wrong with her.

 

“We should do something different,” he says in that beautiful voice after a very short silence. It’s almost, but not quite, a question.

 

“No,” she says. “No, that was… good. That was very good. Just — I need a minute.”

 

There is a long pause. Then: “You are certain?”

 

“Yes,” she says clearly. She curls her fingers against either side of her own neck, a way of comforting herself. “I’m certain.”

 

There’s another one of those short silences, and then he touches her: he puts both his hands lightly on her waist and drops his head to her shoulder and kisses her there.

 

The same confusing, tender thrill blooms in her chest and for a moment she leans back into his chest — and then the fear returns, as well, and she stiffens her spine. She jerks her shoulder away from his mouth. There’s another little pause and his hands are gone from her waist, too.

 

“Sorry,” she says again, and she means it even more this time. “Really, I’m sorry. Just… just give me one minute.”

 

And he doesn’t respond to that, so she sits still with her eyes closed, breathing, telling herself that everything will be fine if she just goes ahead. After five or six deep, steady breaths, she leans forward onto her hands.

 

“Perhaps a different position?” he says 

 

“What? No,” she says. “No.” She shakes her head. “I —” she hesitates, then tells the truth: “I liked this one.” And she did. It was uncomfortable, but she’d liked that too, in an odd way; it made her feel flexible and strong and sluttish in a surprisingly enjoyable way. “Help me get back into it, would you?” she asks, walking forward on her hands and lowering herself into that odd, many-angled crouch. She could push herself back with her own arms, but there’s something much better about having him dig his fingers into her hips and move her around.

 

“Good?” he asks when she’s posed like a statue.

 

“Yes,” she says. “Yes. Can you — can we try again?”

 

“Of course.” There’s a moment of nothing, where Arihnda closes her eyes and promises herself that she’ll stick with it this time, she’ll stick with it all the way, whatever he does — and then he does something different. 

 

He slides two fingers against the outside of her cunt, then down around either side of her clit, and he keeps on like that, unhurried, until her breathing changes and she starts to make involuntary sounds that must satisfy him, because he stops moving his fingers for a moment, then slides them up and inside her.

 

He leaves his fingers in place, unmoving, for a minute, then very slowly slides them almost out of her and just as slowly slides them back in. And waits again. And repeats the action. Then he adds something else: his thumb, putting soft pressure against her clit, not enough to make her wild, just enough to keep a thin, live wire of anticipation running through her veins. He continues like this, a hypnotizing action. This builds heat and tension in her, too, this steady thing he’s doing, just slower. It’s so much easier not to fight this, she finds. This isn’t nearly as demanding as what he did before, and she can just drift along. This isn’t like barrelling over a cliff; it’s like being lifted, and carried, and knowing that somewhere, just a few steps further, there’s a place to be set down. This is the second thing he’s discovered about her body that she hadn’t known for herself; she sinks into the feeling, starts to lose her sense of time. There’s a slow, perfect tension building in her cunt and her legs are beginning to tense. She bends her back and twists her fingers in the sheets, taking a loud, long breath. She should tell him to speed up — just a little — just a  _ very  _ little —

 

And he stops. 

 

She groans in frustration, presses her forehead into the mattress. He leaves his fingers inside her, unmoving for what seems like a long time. Even this has its own effect on her; the relentless presence of something pressed inside her makes her cunt alternately contract hungrily and push against him protest, as if saying  _ do something or leave.  _ Arihnda agrees with her body; she hopes he does something, soon.

 

He does.

 

He curls his fingers and scrapes along the ridge of sensitive flesh near the entrance of her cunt, just like the first time. It makes her grasp the sheets suddenly and gasp. Then he slides his fingers back in slowly, goes back to the slow, hypnotic rhythm. Then curls his fingers again. Then slows, teases, strokes. The oscillation between the two becomes unbearable, but not in a way that makes her mind draw away inside itself. She’s whimpering pathetically and wriggling her hips like a beast in heat, trying to get just a little more, just a little more — He times something particularly well and she tenses, and keens, and he stops again.

 

Arihnda moans in protest. She feels slack, like a knot that's been skillfully undone. She’s not worried about fighting, anymore, about tensing up and having to start over. She’s not worried about anything. She just wants him to fuck her. She wants it very freely, very completely. For the first time in a long time her desire is simple and direct and easy to feel. She wants to cum in the same matter-of-fact way that animals want water. She groans, cunt contracting around his fingers.

 

After whatever horrible interval he deems appropriate, he starts again — slower inside her but more relentless on her clit, and it makes her half-insane. Her legs are tense, she’s whining and clutching at the sheets, and she’s just, just, just on the edge of relief —

 

He stops. He waits. He takes his fingers out of her completely and she nearly sobs. Then he is leaning over her again, tucking her hair behind her ear, looking closely at her face. She must look like a stroke victim: eyes half-closed, face still tense with her concentrated efforts to wring an orgasm from his well-timed teasing, mouth caught in a weird, distended pout. His fingers are wet and her own scent is thick in the air near her face; she thinks she smells wonderful. She takes a deep, slow breath through her nose. 

 

He says something in a language she doesn’t understand. It’s as beautiful as his accent. Then he speaks in Basic again: “Now?” he asks. His voice is heavy with something she can’t process.

 

She tries to say yes, can’t say anything. She can feel his erection between her legs, rubbing against her slick cunt and it becomes the total focus of what little mental power she has left. She groans, then nods slowly.

 

“Good,” he says for them both. Then he stands.

 

He puts one hand on her rump and with the other he lines his erection up with the entrance of her cunt and pushes - a steady, controlled action that shuts off whatever was left of her mind. She is so perfectly slick, so sopping wet, that he slides in without any of the halting and catching and uncomfortable pushing she’d learned to think of as normal. Her eyelids flutter and her eyes roll back and she moans exactly like some holonet pornographer’s idea of a whore.

 

He buries himself inside her completely. He fills her, stretches her, and she feels absurdly as if some missing piece of herself has been put back where it belongs. Even without cumming, having him inside her is almost enough. She could almost lie still like this for the rest of the night.

 

Almost. But she wants to cum. She’s desperate to by now, and when he starts to pull back she moves her hips, searching for relief.

 

It has an instant effect on him. He grabs her hips violently to stop her moving and gasps out something fast and harsh in that beautiful, strange language. She hears him take a few short, sharp breaths and then he says, very roughly: “ _ be still.”  _

 

“I’m sorry,” she whimpers. She doesn’t really know why, but she is.

 

After a moment — she can hear him still catching his breath — he pulls back again. It’s so slow, it’s desperately unfair how slow. Then he pushes back in, just as slowly. It’s torture, and she whines pitifully. Slowly, slowly, filled, slowly, slowly, almost emptied: she groans, and rolls her head against the mattress. It’s half pleasure, half frustration. This isn’t really what she wants, but she feels warm and full and it’s wonderful in its own steady way —

 

Then, at the end of a long, slow stroke back, he pauses. The head of his cock is still inside her. She can hear him breathing, and he brushes both his thumbs across her skin her softly for a moment, and adjusts his grasp on her hips. 

 

And then he starts to fuck her. 

 

The first thrust knocks the wind out of her and when she recovers her breathing all of it becomes desperate, breathy, high-pitched keening: short little whimpers that tumble over each other with each move he makes. The action of his fingers was nothing, nothing at all. As he glides in and out of her, her whole body grows as taught as a cable and her cunt seems to swell into a hot, desperate ring of need that feels ready to snap in on itself. He starts moving faster still, tempo a half-step up and moves his hips in some subtle way and his cock glides along just the right place in just the right way and she cries sharply in surprise and she’s that suddenly that much closer. She balls her hands into fists in the sheets and screws her face tight with concentration, squeezing her cunt as tightly as she can around his driving cock for as long as she can then gasping and trying again. His breathing is loud and he’s cursing (she assumes) every now and then as if what he’s doing is difficult; she doesn’t care if it is, so long as he doesn’t stop. Her voice has vanished past the top of its register into pure, anticipatory feeling. She is so close, so desperately close, she can feel her mouth stretching open in a silent cry, feel her brows knit with tension, she’s so close, so close, so close, please, please, please, please,  _ pleasepleaseplease  _ — 

 

It happens like a miracle. He adjusts his grip on her hips slightly and speeds up yet again, just a little, just enough — and even without anything against her clit the tension in Arihnda’s body breaks.

 

She cries aloud: a wild, high-pitched scream that is mostly from surprise, but which feels different from any other noise she’s ever made. The deep spasms inside her feel different, too, from any orgasm she’s had before. Thrawn dig his fingers into her hips and keeps moving and the snapping contractions in her cunt don’t subside like she’s used to. Her eyes open and her fingers flex and then twist in the sheets. Her cry strangles in her throat, then returns as a resonant wail of confused satisfaction. He's still moving, and it still feels like pleasure, and she can sense something else looming, waiting over some further rise if they just keep going — but this is already more than she's used to, and more than she knows what to do with. “Stop,” she cries, pushing herself desperately up onto her hands, “stop.”

 

He does. He’s clutching her hips fiercely, his breathing harsh. “I can’t,” she says, arms straight, back curved, head low. After a moment, hardly more than a second or so, where she can still hear him breathing, he pulls out. It almost hurts when he does, and it's a relief when he’s gone. He lets her hips go. She tries to catch her breath, crawls awkwardly forward to the top of the bed, lets herself down onto the mattress sideways. Her breathing is erratic, as much from the sudden riot of her emotions as anything else; she curls around herself and tries to master it. Muscles deep inside her are still spasming at odd intervals, and they feel warm and worked out and deeply satisfied. She wraps her arms around her head, as if it will block out the weird frenzy in her mind, which is as confusing as her orgasm was surprising. She doesn’t want to deal with the noise in her head; she wants to sink into the strange and pleasant soreness that’s aching deep in her body and never think again. She groans and keeps her eyes shut tight.

 

After a moment or so she feels the bed shift beside her and she feels a hand run down her spine. Then the same hand runs back up, then down her spine again. It goes on until her mind is still and she’s able to open her eyes and turn her head, which feels like it takes a very long time. He is sitting beside her, propped on an elbow, watching her curiously, free hand stroking the length of her body. It feels like too much work to roll all the way over. She feels, suddenly, awful — like she’s been a bad partner, and failed, and denied him something.

 

“I’m sorry,” she begins, but he shakes his head.

 

“No,” he says. “Do not apologize.” His voice is mostly normal, accent mostly gone. 

 

“But you —”

 

He holds up his hand, wiggles his fingers very slightly. “I made do,” he says drily. “If you are really so guilt-ridden we can always try again. That is, if you think we, as you say, are a good fit?”

 

“Yes,” she says absently, “I think we are.” Then, unaccountably, she turns slightly pink. “I mean - if you think we are.”

 

The corners of his mouth turn up, very faint, almost not at all. “Yes,” he says dryly. “I believe we are indeed.” Then he rolls onto his back and turns his face towards the ceiling and to whatever private thoughts he keeps for company. The conversation, apparently, is over.

 

Which is... fine. That’s fine. Arihnda’s never talked much after sex anyway. Her partners usually just… leave. Curled next to him, she stares at the far wall and and lets the satisfied, wrung-out soreness of her body fill her senses and tries to… think, or not think, or otherwise suppress her strange and uncharacteristic desire to make conversation.

 

Or… perhaps it’s not uncharacteristic? She’d certainly always wanted to talk to Ottlis — she shoves the thought of him out of her head. She loves talking to Juahir and Driller — _ loved _ , she corrects herself, and shoves the thought of them aside, too. She loves the conversations she has day-to-day in her job. That’s a safe thought, and she lets it linger.

 

But Thrawn doesn’t show any inclination towards chit-chat, and she doesn’t know what they’d talk about anyway, except to rehash their earlier conversation. And the only new ground to be had there is in trying to explain to him in more detail how life on Coruscant actually works, but the truth is that he’s got the general idea, even if he dislikes it: power on Coruscant is entirely personal.

 

Her brain stops. Restarts.  _ Power on Coruscant is entirely personal. _

 

She rolls over. Her body protests faintly, but she’s got a fire burning inside her again — the kind she’s used to. What she’s got rattling around in her head is much better than the plan she came here with.

 

“I think I know how to solve all three — no, four — five — no, all six of our problems,” she says.

 

“I thought you only had one problem,” he says, voice dry, turning his face slightly towards her.

 

“No,” she says happily. “ _ We  _ have six problems.”

 

“Oh?”

 

“Yes. First: Ghadi and Ottlis. Second: Juahir and Driller. Third: your social and political standing. Fourth: Eli Vanto’s promotions. Fifth: repairs for the  _ Thunder Wasp _ . And sixth: getting me a new job after I burn High Skies to the ground.” She practically sings the list. “And,” she adds with sudden inspiration, “that last will  _ also _ solve a seventh, personal problem of mine.”

 

He raises his eyebrows. “Quite an impressive an ambitious list, Miss Pryce. How are you going to fix all of this?”

 

She smiles broadly at him. “I think you’ll like this,” she says. And then with obvious relish, she says: “I am planning to turn the enemy of my enemy into my ally — and your ally, too. Much better than a friend, don’t you think?”

 

“I do. Perhaps you would care to explain the details?”

 

She keeps smiling. “In fact, I would.” Propped up on her elbow, free hand resting lightly where she has placed it against the point of Thrawn’s shoulder, fingers moving absently while she speaks, Arihnda rattles off her plan for Moff Tarkin. She lavishes detail on every part, but especially the on parts that she thinks make her sound particularly clever: how she realized Ghadi and Tarkin’s connection, the nature of their animosity, how she will exploit it, what she thinks it will be worth to Tarkin, what she can get from him, how she can turn it to a benefit for both herself and Thrawn.

 

He watches her with a kind of softly indulgent amusement for most of her monologue, until she clarifies that should her plan succeed, she will become the Governor of her home planet of Lothal — which, she adds with distinct self-satisfaction, will mean that Ryder Azadi will get exactly what he deserves (problem number seven), and, she adds with another sudden flash of inspiration, she might even be able to do something about Domus Renking (a heretofore unrecognized problem number eight). She looks distinctly pleased with herself.

 

Thrawn looks skeptical.

 

“What’s wrong?” she asks. “You don’t like it?”

 

“It is a well-crafted scheme,” he allows. “Efficient, effective, concise — you are quite clever, I believe I have already said. It is only…” he continues carefully, “are you are certain Governorship is the best option? For you personally, I mean? Surely you can ask Tarkin for other rewards.”

 

“Not the kind you give,” she says, trying to dodge the question with humor.

 

“I, too, would prefer you did not ask for those,” he says gravely, “but you must consider whether or not Governorship is a role that would suit you.” 

 

She takes her hand off his shoulder, face hardening. “You think I’m not capable?”

 

“I think you are extremely capable, Miss Pryce. It is not a question of your intellectual or professional capacities. I have every confidence that you would be a keen and competent administrator. I only wonder if the role would agree with your personality.”

 

“And what the hell does that mean?”

 

“Miss Pryce, if I may,” he says, with a sort of caution in his voice, “I see a pattern in your… goals: Ottlis Dos hurt you, so you seek to destroy him. Moff Ghadi hurt you, so you seek to destroy him. Juahir Madras hurt you, so you seek to destroy her. Driller MarDapp hurt you, so you seek to destroy him. Domus Renking hurt you, so you seek to destroy him.” He pauses, then adds. “I can only assume that Ryder Azadi also hurt you in some way, and that is why you seek to destroy him, as well.” He stops after this, for a moment. If he thinks it a particularly sad or pitiful list, comprised of every person who has ever mattered in her life besides her parents, he doesn’t say so out loud. “This pattern may be normal in Imperial politicians,” he says instead, “and it may be understandable on a personal level, but I do not believe that it will be helpful to you in the role of Governor.”

 

She eyes him nastily for a minute. “It certainly sounds like you’re calling me incompetent.”

 

“I am calling you...” he thinks for a moment. “The pattern I have described, while understandable on an emotional level, is unproductive in the context of leadership.”

 

“Azadi framed my mother for embezzlement, in case you’re curious,” she spits. 

 

“That rather underscores my point.”

 

“I see,” she says coldly.

 

“I do not believe you do,” he says.

 

“Then maybe you’d better explain it.”

 

“You are thinking in terms of the power politics can grant you — power to protect yourself, power to bring justice to those who have wronged you, and power to reward the people who have treated you well. This is all understandable, and normal.”

 

“Yes,” she says, “I see you have observed at least a  _ little  _ of how Imperial politics operates.”

 

“I have indeed,” he says smoothly. “But politics is not leadership.”

 

“No?”

 

“No. I would never presume to advise you on matters of politics, Miss Pryce,” he says, “but perhaps I might offer some wisdom on the matter of leadership.”

 

“Oh? What wisdom is that?”

 

“Politics is about power,” he says simply. “Leadership is about trust.”

 

“Perhaps you’d better explain that one, too,” she says, tone decidedly unpleasant.

 

He lets her displeasure slide by like water. “In my observation, politics is the science of power: who holds power over what thing, by means they can be manipulated to exercise that power in one’s favor, and with what tools their power can be taken from them.”

 

“Yes,” she snaps. “You’re very good at stating the obvious.”

 

“Leadership is the  _ art  _ of trust,” he says emphatically, ignoring her sniping.

 

“How quotable,” she seethes at him. “Are you writing a book?” It’s said with forceful venom. It stops him.

 

He looks at her consideringly for a long moment, then rolls toward her and reaches for her hip. “Would you indulge me in something, for a moment?”

 

She raises both her eyebrows. “Depends on what it is,” she says, anger breeding distance. 

 

“We will take it a step at a time,” he says dryly. “Come sit up here.” He rolls back onto his back, pulling her leg across him. “Here,” he says again, patting his chest. 

 

After a hesitant moment, frowning, Arihnda pushes herself up and crawls the rest of the way onto him. It’s very strange and awkward, straddling the middle of his torso, and she’s acutely aware of being naked, but he seems quite relaxed about the set up. She eyes him warily. He takes both her hands in his own; it does a great deal more to mollify her anger than she would like. She squeezes his hands back, pleased and resentful at the same time, before speaking. “Alright,” she says slowly, “what now?”

 

“I am going to ask you to do something for me. I do not know how you will feel about it, but I am going to ask you to please try to do it even if it makes you somewhat uncomfortable. I promise it will not hurt you.”

 

She frowns at him, deeply skeptical. “What is it?”

 

Very carefully, very gently, and very, very precisely, he draws her hands down and positions them so that her fingers are wrapped around his neck and both her thumbs are dug slightly into the hollow of his throat. Arihnda’s breathing is suddenly light and shallow, but not from excitement. For all the erratic violence of her personality, things like this have never been in her repertoire of fantasies. She wants very badly to take her hands away.

 

“I would like for you to please lean onto your hands,” he says, voice direct and clear.  She can feel his words in his throat as he speaks and she swallows hard against a wave of fear. “I will tell you when to stop.”

 

She’s worked hard at Yinchom to make herself strong. She’s worked on every part of her body, including her hands, and she could hurt him, like this. If he let her. She could hurt him badly, and the possibility that she might sparks awful trepidation in her muscles. Her hands feel light and weak. She tries to pull them back, but he has her by the wrists and does not let her go. “Please,” he says. “It is a small favor. I will not let you hurt me, I assure you.”

 

“I don’t want to,” she says.

 

“I am aware,” he says. “I am asking anyway. You will have to trust that I have a reason, and you will have to trust that I will not let you go far enough to hurt me — or yourself. Do you understand?”

 

“I don’t,” she says. “I don’t like this.”

 

“Will you do it for me anyway?” He is looking at her very calmly, thumbs making soft and soothing arcs against her wrists. And then he makes the point a third time: “I promise I will stop you when it is appropriate.”

 

Which is almost exactly what she’d said to him, before they fucked. Had he felt as trepidatious? Had it been as hard for him to trust her to say when she was being hurt, to say if she was being hurt, as it was for her trust him now? The idea hits her like a physical thing, rolling in waves through her body: a wave of shock, then of fear, then of guilt. After a moment, where she feels ill, she nods, and learns forward just a little — not nearly enough to put any meaningful pressure on him, but enough, it seems, to persuade him that she will do what he wants. He lets her wrists go, and puts his hands on her knees, and leaves them there.

 

“Whenever you are ready,” he says softly, closing his eyes — which makes her feel even more afraid.

 

She has to take several deep breaths before she can will herself to start leaning down. It’s a bizarre feeling: the tendons and muscles and passageways inside his neck, all the mechanisms that let him breathe and drink and eat and speak, that hold up his head and let him direct his gaze about the world, are fragile and alive just below the points of her thumbs and she can feel his body react with reflexive tension as she starts to put real weight there — something inside his throat tenses, seems almost to shudder and jump, and it’s revolting, and she jerks her hands away.

 

He opens his eyes. “I did not tell you to stop.”

 

She only looks at him, eyes wide with horror, for a moment. He doesn’t argue with her, and she doesn’t argue with him, but a test of wills exists in the moment of silence. Finally he says: “If you are not capable, you may stop. But if you are at all able, I would appreciate your doing as I have asked. It is up to you.”

 

It hits all the right notes. She swallows, flexes her hands, nods faintly. He holds her gaze a moment more, then closes his eyes, and tilts his chin back just a little. “Whenever you are ready, Miss Pryce,” he murmurs.

 

Arihnda has to take a number of deep, steadying breaths before she masters herself enough to put her hands back in place, and several more breaths before she begins to lean forward. It’s just as disgusting as the last time, but this time she keeps going.  _ He’ll stop me,  _ she thinks to herself fiercely, bending her all her considerable willpower on the task of forcing herself to place more and more weight against his throat. Whatever superhuman powers of self-control he has, they are far beyond what she understood: he doesn’t react to the weight against his throat with anything more than a tightening of his hands against her knees. Doesn’t react anywhere except in the places he can’t control, that is: the flesh under her hands jolts and squirms in desperate, horrifying protest and she wants to vomit. He gags she does too, in revulsion, and suddenly it takes every fragment of self-mastery she has not to yank her hands away.  _ Stop me, stop me, stop — _

 

And he does, with a sudden but precise — controlled, efficient — action of his own hands. He holds her hands tightly, and looks up at her with a kind of wry approval, his breathing audible. “Very good,” he says, voice a little rough. “That was very good.”

 

She’s shaking, and she has to catch her breath before she can speak. All she says is “ _ Why _ ?”

 

“A demonstration of trust,” he says. “Of the particularly difficult trust on which leadership relies.”

 

“What?”

 

“Power can be leveraged on or against people whether they like it or not,” he says. He places her hands on his chest between her legs, places his own hands on her thighs. “If, for example, I decided to hurt you, without warning, that would be a demonstration of power. Leadership, by contrast, is for accomplishing those things where people cannot be compelled. Leadership is the art of asking others to do things they might prefer not to do, because they trust that you have asked them for a reason, because they trust you to make the correct choices, and because they trust that even if you have asked them to do something dangerous or unpleasant, you will still take care of them. This trust flows both ways — the leader must also trust the led to follow through on what has been asked, even when they do not enjoy it, or trust that they will retreat when asked.”

 

“I don’t think this is the kind of trust Governors develop with their subjects,” Arihnda says unsteadily, fingers curling against his chest. She can feel him breathing, can feel his words through her whole body as he speaks. It’s a little distracting, but it’s reassuring, too. She doesn’t make any move to get off of him.

 

“Their constituents, you mean,” he corrects her. “And,” he adds dryly, “no, I do not expect you to do this or anything like with every person on Lothal. Nor, I hope,” he adds as a casual afterthought, “with any person on Lothal. Perhaps it was not the most salient demonstration.” He tucks a stray piece of hair behind her ear, absently. “However,” he continues, “I suspect you are particularly susceptible to practical demonstrations. And I believe many of the principles are the same — trust is a visceral thing, for both parties. You must earn it. You can not succeed in this if you are focused only on your own personal hurts and revenges. Leaders can only persuade their people to follow them by demonstrating, through their actions, a focus on and commitment to some goal beyond themselves, and by demonstrating care and attention to the well-being of their followers, and faith in their followers abilities to do what is asked of them. Leaders persuade their people to follow them by  _ earning  _ trust through a demonstrated commitment to doing what is most wise, in spite of their personal feelings, and through a demonstrated faith in the capabilities of the led. This is how they persuade subordinates, friends, and followers to do things contrary to  _ their  _ personal feelings.”

 

She thinks he’s awfully smug, with his sweeping pronouncements on the nature of things. She can feel angry annoyance etched on her face. She can feel how ugly it must look. “And you’ve tested this theory, I assume?” she snarls. She can hardly help herself.

 

He pauses. “Perhaps I can provide a more appropriate example. Tell me — you have described for me the  difficult position that Eli Vanto is in as a result of his attachment to me. Yet he has never requested a transfer. Why not?” Arihnda does not respond, but he must see something working beneath the cold lines of her face, because he chooses another example. “You have heard, no doubt, about the reasons for my first court-martial, the reason for my being at the Alisandre when we first met? The crewmen assigned to me during that mission, a dangerous and unpleasant one, volunteered. Every one of them. Why did they do this?” Arihnda still does not respond, but she is turning from cold to thoughtful. She sees, she thinks, the point he is getting at. She hates to admit it, but he's not wrong. He chooses a third example. “When I received command of the  _ Thunder Wasp _ , not a single one of my crewmates or subordinates requested a transfer. Despite your Empire’s xenophobic tendencies, all elected to remain and serve under my command. Why, do you think, did they do this?”

 

“They see you as a leader,” she says at last.

 

“Indeed they do,” he says. “Why do they see me as a leader? Why do they trust me?”

 

She purses her lips. “Because nothing ever bothers you. You focus only on your mission. You can be relied on to tell the truth, keep your word, and accomplish what you say will accomplish. And you treat those around you fairly, no matter your personal feelings. You put long-term goals ahead of personal concerns. And...” she hesitates here, and her face twists in distaste as she says it, this thing that is furthest from her own nature and abilities: “and you never punish people, if you can avoid it. Even when they hurt you.”

 

“And does that sound like an impression you can cultivate by pursuing a list of personal grievances  — no matter how justified they may be?”

 

“I’m not joining the military,” she snaps, clambering off of him in a fit of intolerable irritation. She flops onto her back and speaks to the ceiling. “Governorship is a  _ political  _ office.”

 

“A Governor needs to be a politician, to be sure, but to their people must they not also be a leader?”

 

“I suppose,” she offers finally.

 

“And do you believe that you will be able to cultivate the qualities of leadership in this office?”

 

“If you’re telling me,” she begins angrily, “that I should just let everything I’ve told you slide —”

 

“No, Miss Pryce, I am not.” He nearly sighs. She feels the bed shift. She glances over and finds that he has rolled onto his side and has his head propped on a hand. “No, I believe there is a certain wisdom to clearing the pawns you have listed off the board before setting the pieces for the next stage of your game, whatever that may be. Ghadi, Ottlis, Renking, Madras, MarDapp, Azadi — I see a value besides emotional satisfaction in their removal. I am only concerned that, once you have your Governorship, you will not  _ change  _ your approach. You will remain caught in this same pattern.”

 

“Concerned?”

 

“You are quite talented, Miss Pryce,” he says seriously, reaching for her again. He rests a hand on her middle, casually. “It would be a pity for your abilities to go to waste, which often happens when talents are misdirected, or when the talented are placed in roles that do not suit them.”

 

“And you think I am unsuited to Governorship.” She can feel a weird, complex expression on her face, and she doesn’t want to think about the emotions that comprise it: hope, fear, sorrow, desire. She hates how naturally it comes to her to seek his approval: Higher Skies, her own body, her future plans. But he was right. This meeting was an act of trust. Everything between them has been an act of trust and she finds that she trusts him to give her something she has found it almost impossible to acquire elsewhere: the honest truth.

 

“I think it is possible that you might make a competent leader,” he says, “but I think it will be a challenge for you to adapt to the role.”

 

“Do you have any suggestion as to how I can best... adapt myself?” she asks, placing her own hand atop his.

 

“Find a good adviser, for one,” he says. He sounds neutral about it, as if he’s not suggesting himself. “Someone you trust to tell you the truth, and whose advice you are willing to follow.”

 

“What about you?” She looks at his chest when she says it; she doesn’t want to see a refusal written in his face. She’s not masochistic enough for that, or brave enough, not tonight.

 

“I would be happy to make suggestions,” he says seriously, “should you solicit my advice.”

 

It’s not a no. She looks at his face, which looks mostly neutral. Probably all her hope shows on her own features, but she hasn’t got the reserves to try and hide it. 

 

“I was thinking of something more regular,” she says.


	2. An Axe to Grind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some steps forward, some steps back. Being smart about some things doesn't mean you're the smartest or quickest study in all things. Even a smart, competent person can still be a wreck, a danger, a disaster. Anger is a powerful emotion, but it doesn't help you think very clearly. The same can be said for fear.
> 
> Arihnda is told the truth about several things, and is incapable of hearing most of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fair warning on two counts: 1. Thrawn is in this story, obviously, but it's really Arihnda's story. Expect a lot a lot a lot of this hot mess of a dark-haired low-rent Cersei Lannister, and not nearly as much of Thrawn as last chapter.
> 
> 2\. This chapter strays a bit closer to dub con territory than the last one, becuase Arihnda is terrible at communication, and it's his consent that's at issue far more than hers. It's... moderate, but it's definitely there. They get close to a dangerous line. And he's super pissed about it, and he's gonna make her deal with it in the next chapter.

_ "These reports, as you know, Monsieur le Marechal, are not for my personal benefit; for I am nothing in the army. I receive in the Emperor's name the reports of the marshals and I sign on his behalf, so personally I have no axe to grind." — Louis-Alexandre Berthier, Chief of Staff to Napoleon Bonaparte  _

_ "Nothing should be concealed from the Emperor, either good or bad; to deceive him, even about things that are likely to be disagreeable to him is a crime." — Louis-Alexandre Berthier _

 

 

 

 

 

She gets home — no, she gets back to the apartment, because the apartment where she happens to sleep and where Juahir lives is  _ not  _ home, not anymore — at a ridiculous hour. Juahir — who sometimes stays out just as late and comes home riled and drunk and joyful and  _ loud  _ and crawls into Arihnda’s bed and wakes her and delivers a narration of the night that is half stream of consciousness, half interpretive dance — is, thank every piece of luck in the galaxy, sound asleep in her own room. Arihnda herself tries to at least nap, almost succeeds, then drags herself into into the fresher and tries to slip out of the apartment without having to encounter Juahir at all.

 

It doesn't work.

 

“ _ You  _ stayed out late,” coos Juahir from the kitchen. The kitchen is really just an alcove of the living room. There isn't much space, or much privacy, in Juahir’s apartment. Two days ago Arihnda would have called it cozy.

 

Arihnda winces. “Yes,” she says. She tries to say it normally but she snaps instead.

 

“Hooo, grouchy! No need to snipe. Here, have some caf. Did you have a good time? With Ottlis?”

 

Arihnda wants to put her whole fist right through the middle of Juahir’s perfect, beautiful, shining face.

 

“I wasn't with Ottlis,” she snaps without thinking. Then she takes a breath. “I'm going in early today.”

 

“Well o-o-o- _ kay _ ,” sing-songs Juahir, holding her hands up in mock surrender, giving a Arihnda a very strange look. “Sor- _ ry _ .”

 

Arihnda leaves as quick as she can.

 

Being in the office is even worse. She's moody and snappish with Driller, who looks taken aback and then asks what's wrong with genuine concern, and a little fear, though not, Arihnda thinks, for her personally.

 

“Nothing,” she says, trying to sound contrite, trying to cover herself. “I just didn't get any sleep last night.” Which of course he will assume is because of Ottlis. Arihnda wonders if Driller was hoping to use her infatuation with Ottlis as a way into Ghadi’s affairs the same way Ottlis himself had planned to use it as a key to Higher Skies. After a little pause she forces herself to say: “Sorry.” And then: “I think I just need to stick to data work today.”

 

“Alright,” he says slowly. “You’ll let me know what's wrong if you need to?”

 

And Arihnda has to master her face very, very quickly, which she barely manages. “I promise,” she says.

 

She's snappish and withdrawn with everyone else in the office, too, these so-called colleagues about whom she's begun to wonder  _ do you know — about me, about everyone using me?  _ and  _ what do you know about me?  _ and  _ how much do you know about me? _

 

During one nasty little exchange in the office kitchen — well, nasty on Arihnda’s part, confused on the other — she hits her hip on the edge of the counter while turning sharply and hisses in pain. She practically bolts for the fresher after that. Behind the closed door, she lets down her slacks and pulls up her shirt to examine her hips. She has bruises: deep red-and-black splotches where Thrawn had dug his fingers into her. As she's standing there, looking at them, she gets a call on her comm. Not holo, thankfully, but someone she'd rather not hear from. But she hasn't got much choice. 

 

“Ottlis,” she croons poisonously into the receiver. “Such a pleasure. Do you miss me?” 

 

“I thought you'd have something for me by now.” He sounds unfriendly but, strangely, less tense than before, as if knowing that she knows the truth makes talking to her easier. As if being honest even about unpleasant things is better than the alternative. 

 

Feeling strange, looking at her bruises, knowing he is waiting for an answer, she presses one experimentally.  The throb of pain is, surprisingly, pleasant. It feels like an echo, or a memory — it summons up the sensations of the prior evening and takes her mind pleasantly far from the present. 

 

She presses harder on the same bruise, the darkest and ugliest of the lot, and answers him like she's a card player betting double or nothing on an empty hand: “Tell your boss that if he wants this work done so badly, badly done is exactly how he’ll get it.” And then, pressing even harder into the pain, she adds: “Tell him patience is a virtue,” and hangs up.

 

She presses the bruises, on and off, intentionally, for the rest of the day. She finds they give her a sense of fortitude, and help her regulate her foul mood as best she can.

 

Arihnda’s colleagues, averse to being snapped at, avoid her. Which is fine, perfectly fine, because it gives her time to start digging through Higher Skies’ databases. Driller thinks he has a secure system but she practically built the records and security systems for Pryce Mining, and she certainly maintained them, and she knows what to do to get what she needs.

 

She's managed quite a bit by the end of the day. But she decides to sit on it all a little while longer. If she's going to do this, she decides, she's going to do it right. And that means consulting Yularen.

 

Which means going back to Thrawn. Which means arranging another hotel, because meeting him in Juahir’s apartment — Juahir’s  _ home  _ — is as far out of the question as meeting him in a Navy barracks.

 

And if she's going to meet with him, she might as well have something to offer.

 

Which means she needs to find a way to start moving the  _ Thunder Wasp  _ up the lists for repairs.

 

She goes to Driller. “I think I need to knock off early today, if that's alright with you.”

 

“Sure,” he says. “Just get some sleep. Feel better. I’ll have something interesting for you tomorrow, if you're up for it.”

 

Arihnda can't bring herself to feel interested, but she does her best to mimic it. Her best is maybe not good enough, but Driller doesn’t press the issue.

 

She does not go back to Juahir’s apartment. Instead, she heads to the Senate building. She has a few ideas about who to press for help with the  _ Thunder Wasp _ . Vasp Vaspar, who represents significant manufacturing interests and hates spice dealers perhaps the most of any Senator Arihnda has ever met. Bail Organa, who is transparently associated with the budding rebellion but still influential and always happy to make hay out of Imperial Military corruption. He will probably be moved by the rectitude plastered all over Thrawn’s service record. He’ll be offended by the blatantly anti-alien sentiment in the  _ Thunder Wasp _ ’s treatment, too. Although she doesn't know him well, she thinks that Gall Trayvis might be moved just by the simple unfairness of it all. And Senator Evidorn constantly expresses frustration with the generally subpar performance of Imperial law enforcement, and their inability to track and apprehend suspects across star systems. Surely  _ he  _ can be persuaded to become an ardent supporter of someone as effective as Thrawn. Though Evidorn is, Arihnda decides, definitely a last resort.

 

By simple good fortune she sees Bail Organa in the hallway.

 

“Senator!” she calls out, in her friendliest manner. “How are you?”

 

“Why it’s Miss Pryce! What a pleasant surprise. Come to bend my ear about hospitals again?” Bail’s smile is genuine. He's never been receptive to Higher Skies’ pitch — which tells Arihnda, now that she can put things in context, that the Rebels aren't unified and that Driller is small fry — but he's always seemed to enjoy watching her  _ try.  _ She has the feeling that soon he’ll be able to watch her do a lot more than just try.

 

“No,” she says, lowering her voice as they draw near each other. “I was actually hoping you might help me with something personal.”

 

This stops him. She can see the confusion and suspicion on his face, but there's interest there too, and interest wins. “Well, that's... unexpected. Arihnda — can I call you Arihnda? — I don't want to promise what I can't deliver, but I’m happy to listen. What's bothering you?”

 

She holds out a data pad. “This officer. I found out that his ship is being placed last for repairs, even when he ought to be much higher on the list, if not even first. It's because he's non-human. He's better and more effective than half the captains whose ships are being tended to first, and he should be getting more resources, not fewer. You can see from his service record —”

 

“Yes, I can. Let me read for a minute, would you?” he says, frowning at the datapad and taking it out of her hands. Arihnda knows she's got him. Bail reads quietly for a minute. “Thrawn. I met him at an Ascension Week party a couple years ago. Yularen was taking him around trying to get support to quash a totally absurd, completely racist court-martial charge. I liked him. Thought he was really getting the short end.”

 

“Yes, that's where I met him, too.”

 

“Was it? I was going to ask.” He looks at her, gaze a little narrow. Bail Organa is no fool. “What's your interest here?”

 

For the first time since leaving Thrawn at the hotel, Arihnda is able to tell someone the full, complete, and honest truth about something. The  _ true _ truth, the one that's underneath all the details and particulars of the situation. There's something safe about Bail. She knows he’ll help, and she knows he won't ever use the thing she says in this moment against her — partly because of what it is that she says. “I like him, too,” she says without even having to think about it. “I want to help him. I thought I could help with this.”

 

Bail only looks at her for a minute, absorbing this, thinking about it, thinking about her. Adjusting his idea of her. Then he looks back at the pad and taps around through Thrawn’s service record as if confirming a few details. Then he looks at her again and hands the pad back. His face has the clear, relaxed resolve of a decent man who has made a simple decision. “Okay, Arihnda. You've got me. I’ll help our friend.” 

 

_ Our  _ friend. Arihnda likes the sound of that. 

 

“And I’ll be happy to talk about your personal problems anytime you want,” Bail adds. “Just don't bring me any more pitches from Higher Skies, got it?”

 

“Fine by me, Senator,” she says, taking the pad. “And thank you.”

 

She goes directly back to the apartment after that. She's back earlier than Juahir, which is excellent. She doesn't think she can stand to see Juahir right now. She intends to go directly to sleep, but she can't manage it. Her mind is too active, churning over the problems that are still unsolved — mostly the hotel room, to a lesser extent Ghadi, last of all Tarkin — and she only ends up tossing and turning and staring at the ceiling. 

 

Finally she gives up, gets up, showers, and decides there's nothing for it but to make a pot of caf and get out her pad and read. There's plenty of new data to process, and old data to re-evaluate. 

 

Unselfconscious, she walks to the kitchen in just her very minimal underthings and a thin, soft camisole that doesn't quite come down to her hips.

 

Arihnda stops in the middle of the living room.

 

Juahir is home. Juahir must have arrived home while Arihnda was in the shower. Juahir, who is usually out much later and who Arihnda hoped badly not to see. Juahir, who set Ottlis on Arihnda like a hunter sets a hound on a fox. Juahir, who works hand-in-glove with Driller on Higher Skies’ and Yinchom’s below-board missions — their  _ real  _ missions. Juahir, who has treated Arihnda like a fool and strung her along and pretended to be her friend and used her as a patsy. Arihnda feels a sick, twisting churn in her stomach and she wants to lunge across the room and grab Juahir by the hair and drag her to the floor and start hitting her. Juahir is standing in the kitchen, where she'd been in the morning, and she's pouring herself three fingers of Corellian whiskey. Arihnda wants to take the bottle out of Juahir’s hand and smash it over her head. Arihnda wants to hurt Juahir. Arihnda wants to see Juahir bleed, and cry, and beg. 

 

Arihnda does none of these things. Arihnda stands stock-still in the middle of the little living room and stares, face harsh with barely constrained rage, and is paralyzed by fury.

 

Juahir is aware of none of this. She hears that her friend is home and and she turns to show off the glowing smile she always reserves for Arihnda and hardly a second later her face transforms. She's not smiling.

 

“ _ Oh my God, _ Arihnda,” gasps Juahir, who is an Outer Rim girl just like Arihnda and says things like God when she forgets her Core World manners, “oh my  _ God, _ what  _ are _ those?”

 

It takes Arihnda a minute to realize what Juahir is talking about. Then she looks down at her own body. The bruises. They don't look at all like the bruises she'd normally get at the dojo — and Juahir is staring at them in horror.

 

“It’s nothing,” Arihnda says. “I —” she has to say something more than that. She has to explain at least a little. “Last night I… I mean, you know. It’s really nothing.”

 

“Arihnda,” says Juahir, suddenly very serious and very concerned, “are you sure? Did he hurt you, whoever he was? Is that why you’re being so weird?”

 

_ I’m being weird because you hurt me,  _ Arihnda wants to scream. She wants to slap Juahir and scream in her face.  _ You hurt me. Ottlis hurt me. Ghadi hurt me. Driller hurt me. You hurt me! _

 

Instead she smiles tightly and forces a brittle laugh. “I guess it’s why I’m... being weird. But he didn’t —” Arihnda knows the best way to lie is to mostly tell the truth. Tell the truth but leave something out. Tell the truth about something related. Tell the truth about something that distracts. Great liars survive by being honest as much as possible, and saying as little as they can the rest of the time. Arihnda knows this, she does this for work constantly, but staring at the open, skeptical, caring expression on Juahir’s face, Arihnda doesn’t want to be a good liar. She feels a seething hate and she doesn’t want to share anything with Juahir, especially not this thing, which feels, suddenly, like the only thing in the Galaxy that really belongs to Arihnda herself. The only thing that’s truly hers. She doesn’t  _ want  _ to share it.

 

But Arihnda has always been able to do whatever she feels she needs to do. She's already admitted she wasn't with Ottlis, and a mystery lover gives her more excuse for an erratic schedule anyway. She will tell Juahir only the parts that will make Juahir do as she wishes.

 

“He didn’t hurt me,” she says, softening her voice with effort, and telling the truth. “He’s just intense. I liked it, though.”

 

“Oh,” says Juahir, still skeptical, gaze flickering uncertaintly between Arihnda’s taught face and Arihnda’s bruised hips. With a profound effort of will, Arihnda sets aside the anger she feels at Juahir and thinks of Thrawn instead. She lets some of the way she feels for him — appreciative, admiring, trusting — show through in her expression. Eventually Juahir’s gaze settles on Arihnda’s face. Juahir peers at her a long time in a doubtful, appraising way. “You’re  _ sure  _ he didn’t do anything bad to you, whoever he is?”

 

Arihnda has to suppress the sudden urge to burst out laughing. If Juahir had asked her to write a list a thousand words long to describe the things that Thrawn had done to her — the things he had done  _ for  _ her — “bad” would not have been among them. If she were asked for a single word to describe how Juahir had treated her, however —  “No, he didn’t do anything  _ bad _ ,” Arihnda says. The sense that it’s really a deeply funny, very amusing thing to say is hard to keep at bay entirely and something happens on her face that makes Juahir narrow her eyes sharply. Juahir watches Arihnda, and Arihnda holds her breath.

 

“Oh my God, Arihnda,” says Juahir, blinking, face clearing, “you like him!” Her face blooms into a smile and it’s everything Arihnda can do to keep a thin, tense smile plastered on her own face instead of vomiting or hitting Juahir with all her might. “You  _ like  _ him!” Juahir crows again, ecstatic.

 

Arihnda doesn’t answer.

 

“Oh, Arihnda,” says Juahir, “that’s wonderful.” She throws her arms around Arihnda and holds her tight. Juahir’s always been very freely physical about everything. Arihnda used not to mind it. Now it takes an effort of will for her to put her own arms around Juahir in return, and it’s hardly a hug from Arihnda’s side — her movements are brittle and staggered and cold. But Juahir has known Arihnda a long time and she must have learned years ago that big emotions always make Arihnda go rigid; Juahir doesn’t seem to find Arihnda’s body language strange in the context of the moment. “I’m so happy for you,” Juahir says into Arihnda’s hair, and Arihnda knows it is the truth, and it makes her sick with anger all over again. Poor Arihnda Pryce, who doesn’t even know how to enjoy other people. Poor Arihnda Pryce, who has never had a lover she could keep. Poor Arihnda. Arihnda swallows hard against her rage, again.

 

“Thank you,” Arihnda says with difficulty.

 

Juahir pulls away, but keeps her hands on Arihnda’s shoulders, looking at her friend with a soft mix of pride and joy and concern — it looks like love. Arihnda hates it. “Is it serious?” Juahir asks. “Have you known each other a long time? Will you tell me about him? I’ll order in! If I get a good bottle of wine will you stay in and tell me about him?”

 

Arihnda feels her mouth tightening; it’s very hard to keep her face ambiguous. No, she will not tell Juahir about Thrawn. She would prefer to kill Juahir. She can’t do that, either. “I…” she tries. She gives herself a moment. “I like him very much, but it’s complicated. And I can’t talk about it. I’m sorry to sound dramatic, but it’s just… I can’t talk about it, right now.”

 

Juahir frowns, but only a little. “Alright,” she says slowly, “but if you change your mind, I’ll be waiting. And if ‘complicated’ ever means ‘bad’ or ‘dangerous,’ you know I’m here for you, right? I love you. And I’ll be there for you if you need anything.”

 

Arihnda knows what her reaction to this should be. It should not be bursting into tears and screaming angry questions at her supposed friend. It should not be gloating about the plans she has made with Thrawn. It should not be a bitter, angry laugh. It should not be spitting in Juahir’s face. Her reaction should be a grateful softening of her expression, a softly whispered thank you, a smile, maybe the best hug she can manage. Or maybe not that last. But it’s difficult, beyond difficult, to summon up the correct reaction. Her mind is stuck on the disgusting irony of Juahir claiming to be  _ there  _ for her.  _ Like you were there for me when I was trapped in Moff Gahdi’s office yesterday?  _ Arihnda wants to ask. She still feels sick.

 

The moment drags on almost too long; Juahir’s expression is starting to flicker when Arihnda manages to do what she needs to do. She summons up her memories, flicks through a slideshow of moments, and picks one that will let her feel the way she needs to feel to perform the behaviors she needs to perform. It's a memory that is fresh and vivid and easy to draw on. It's of a moment she would prefer to be living right now. It's a moment of feeling, among other things, safe — and perhaps cared for.  _ Slick, sticky fingers tucking her hair behind her ear; her own body aching with pleasure and desire; strange words murmured above her like a piece of music; his erection against her but not yet inside her; his voice asking for permission. “Now?” _

 

It works. “Thank you, Juahir,” Arihnda says. It comes out sounding true, exactly as she needs.

 

Juahir scans Arihnda’s face for a half a second before hugging her again. “Alright.” Juahir says, “you do what you have to do, Arihnda. I’m very happy for you.” And that’s the last time Juahir asks who exactly Arihnda is fucking. Juahir has always respected the boundaries Arihnda has taken the time to set. 

 

Apparently it’s only the boundaries Arihnda would never have thought needed setting that are a problem.

 

“I have to go to bed,” Arihnda says. She stands stiffly until Juahir lets her go, and then retreats to her room.

 

In her bed, Arihnda lies flat as a board with her legs together and her arms bent above her head, and stares at the ceiling. She is no closer to sleep than she was when she went in to the living room. In most ways she is further from it. She stares at the ceiling for a long time, trying to feel her way towards sleep, and trying to ignore the fact that thinking of Thrawn — or at least, of the things he had done to her body — has woken some parts of her more than others. Between her legs her cunt is very softly, but insistently, aching for attention. She tries very, very hard to ignore it — maybe out of a sense of shame, maybe just because she doesn't want to feel ruled by this one part of her body. She hates feeling ruled by anything. In any case, she doesn't examine her feelings too closely.

 

But the more insistently she ignores her cunt the more the feeling there persists, insists, begs. 

 

Finally, almost cautiously, blowing out a breath that is both irritated and defeated, she slides a hand between her legs. She doesn't make much effort to move them apart. She just splays her hips a little, and slips her fingers down between her thighs. Her outer labia, still hairless from her visit to the esthetician, are closed softly together like folded hands. She hesitates a moment and then stokes her fingers against them, gently, as if she were petting a small animal about which he had sentiments both tender and slightly fearful — which is just about exactly what she is doing. She does it again, just as gently. This is something new for her; she's always masturbated out of necessity, and always tried to be as fast and vigorous as possible. 

 

She keeps stroking the soft skin between her thighs lightly. It feels very good, but, despite the mild ache of desire inside her, it doesn't feel particularly sexual. Or maybe it does — maybe it's that she lacks of vocabulary for or any experience in being sexual alone with herself aside from trying to cum as efficiently as she can.

 

She keeps stroking herself, letting the soft soreness in her cunt fade into the background of her awareness. As she strokes herself she tries to find the correct words for the way she feels under her own fingers: soft, soft is the word she keeps finding.  _ Pleasant to the touch,  _ his voice comes to her. And maybe she is. God knows he'd spent enough time touching her there. Maybe this part of her is more than just a means to a rarely realized end, more than a limited-use and little-used addition to an otherwise versatile body.

 

Slowly, she draws her heels towards her rump, then lets her knees fall open. Her labia open too. Clinically, with three fingers, she begins to explore the wet inner places of her outer labia, then moves her fingers around and over and across her inner labia, which are wetter still, and then, holding her inner labia apart with two fingers she runs her middle finger around the small, uneven folds of skin at the opening of her cunt, where her finger slides easily in the wet. She is paying close attention to the details of these places for the first time in her life. Everywhere she touches she finds that she is soft. The folds of her cunt are puffy with arousal and they feel as soft as pillows underneath her fingers. She feels other details, too. Her skin is slick to the touch and beneath the slickness she find different textures in different places; some places are more smooth, some very subtly spongy, some almost ridged. She thinks about another set of fingers moving across the same places and she wonders if he found the variety interesting, or enjoyable. Stretching her arm all the way from the shoulder she curls her hand and slides her middle finger inside herself and finds that past the strong ring of muscle and ridged, textured skin at her entrance, she is soft and pillowy inside, too. She knows that she has strong muscles everywhere, even here, ones that can grip tight and squeeze firm when she wants, ones that clamp down fiercely and spasmodically when she cums, but when they're relaxed, as they are around her finger now, they're nearly as soft and gently yielding as the slick folds on the outside of her cunt.

 

Maybe he likes that, too, she thinks. It's the first time in her life she's thought of any part or aspect of herself as gentle and soft and enjoyed the idea. Men have always hissed or panted at her about wanting her  _ tight  _ and  _ hot  _ and she has no doubt he likes that too, but — she remembers, vividly, the steady way he'd slid inside her and the slow, slow way he'd moved at first. Maybe he liked feeling the yielding softness of her wrapped close around his cock the same way she enjoyed feeling his solid, hard erection moving inside her. The idea makes her feel… something, for which she does not have a precise word. Some subtle thing that comprises pride and gratitude, and which she does not think about for long.

 

The vivid and almost tangible memory of his erection inside her ratchets her arousal into a higher key. She is still sore from the night before, a very mild ache that doesn’t assuage her desire but makes her a little leery of fulfilling it. She takes her hand away from herself and presses her knees together and rocks her hips, slowly and without rhythm, as if she can persuade the feeling to go away. She can't. She gives up, gives in, admits to herself she's enjoying it. Between caution and hunger, her personality has always left her disposed to only one answer. Then she rocks her hips again, for a moment, just teasing herself. But she's still not good at patience. She slides her hand back between her legs, gathers the growing wetness at the center of her cunt and rubs is back against her clit, and does this again, and again, until her clit is soaking too and she can move her fingers fast without hurting herself. And then she stops. She thinks. And then she tries moving her fingers slowly. It takes her a few tries to find a motion that works for her at this slow speed, but she manages. She fights the impulse to go faster, determined to push herself into an orgasm with steady, gentle attention instead of a half-abusive frenzy — determined at least to see if it is possible, and if it is, to learn how it will feel. She holds her labia apart with two fingers and draws her middle finger deliberately, precisely across her clit. Then she waits. Each time she does this it sends a small electric burst through her nerves, and each time she pauses the thrill seems to fade almost completely away. But only almost. Slowly, slowly, it works. A gentle, warm pressure builds in her cunt; then it becomes an aching tension. She keeps stroking, careful, controlled. Her cunt begins to contract in little pulses and the tension extends steadily to her hips, to her thighs, to her abdomen. She has to concentrate harder on controlling the speed of her finger which is at cross-purposes to the growing strain in her cunt but not destructive of the enterprise. It just takes longer. And the reward, at the end, is better than the quick and shivering acts of desperation she usually allows herself. Her climax is both sudden and modest, but satisfying, and makes her gasp, if only a little. In its own way it is as gentle and soft as the flesh of her cunt. She stretches her legs slowly, languidly, deliberately, and then lays still. She puts her hand, her sticky fingertips, on her belly. Her eyes are still closed. She feels truly tired, and for the first time since leaving the hotel, relaxed. She falls asleep almost instantly.

 

She has several vivid dreams. She has a screaming match with Juahir in one. There might be words in the screaming but mostly it feels like mindless rage. She hits Ottlis many times in another; she is screaming when this happens, to. She kills Driller, and it feels good. She kills Tarkin and takes his place; she kills the Emperor and takes  _ his  _ place. These scenes come and leave with the strange, abrupt unreason of dreams.

 

Then she has a dream that wakes her. She dreams of Thrawn. She dreams that he is fucking her. In her dream they fuck face to face. His arms are around her and his face is buried in her neck; she has her hands buried in his hair. Her eyes are closed and she keens with aching, insane desire while he strokes in and out of her impossibly fast, like a piston. She does not have any sense of where they are and she does not care. It doesn't matter; he feels solid and real and reliable and safe. She feels she can hold on to him in the midst of her collapsing life the way a flood victim holds a floating tree. Her hips are open painfully wide and her legs are wrapped around his thighs and he is thundering into her relentlessly and she presses her face into his shoulder and clings to him and sobs out a desperate, wild cry as she cums.

 

She wakes with a strangled groan on her lips and her cunt throbbing between her legs. Half-asleep she shoves her hand between her legs and strokes her slick clit as fast as she can until she cums for real. She groans aloud as she does. Then she opens her eyes, blinks into the darkness, and decides she probably has time to sleep some more. She's still more than tired enough to try; she curls onto her side and slides under again.

 

She dreams of being fucked, again. She is lying on her back with her legs around his hips; he is moving inside her slowly with a sure, regular motion that is deep and steady and firm. She feels loose and undone and utterly safe. He cradles the back of her head with one hand. His other hand is flat against her back, his arm beneath her. Her eyes are closed but she knows he is watching her face, which she can feel has an expression that is relaxed and open and unashamed. Her arms are thrown backwards above her head and she rocks her hips in time with his slow, stroking thrusts. She gasps, throwing her head back. She turns her head sideways and he cradles her cheek in his palm, and keeps moving inside her. Her gasps become moans and she arches her spine, pressing her breasts against his chest, and she cums.

 

This wakes her, too. Her cunt is aching and sore and  _ insistent,  _ and she presses her fingers to her clit again. Her clit feels overly-sensitive, almost pained, but she rubs it anyway, like an animal with a compulsion, until she cums again. Then she lays quietly, feeling at once rested and wrung-out, and slightly confused by herself, until her alarm sounds.

 

Juahir, who is an early riser no matter how late she goes to bed, is in the kitchen pouring caf when Arihnda gets out of the fresher. It's easier, this morning, for Arihnda to swallow down the wave of violent fury that she feels when she sees Juahir — though not by much. Juahir gives Arihnda a quick glance, transparently uncertain, and then looks away.

 

“Do you want some?” Juahir asks, not quite looking at her, which is strangely diffident and very unlike Juahir.

 

“Sure,” says Arihnda, starting to feel a little cautious herself.

 

Juahir pours her a mug and passes it to her. When Arihnda takes it, Juahir looks her in the face. Juahir’s expression is searching and curious and worried. Slowly, as if gathering her courage, which is also unlike her normal mode, Juahir says: “Listen, Arihnda, I won't ask who he is again… but I just… I know this kind of stuff embarrasses you, but you know you were awfully loud last night?”

 

Arihnda almost drops her mug, clutches it white-knuckled instead. She turns beet red.

 

“I mean,” Juahir continues, still halting but warming to her subject a little, “It’s just — look, relax, you didn't yell his name or anything, you just… well, you sounded... I mean you sounded… some of it sounded like it hurt.”

 

Arihnda doesn't say anything, but her face is returning to a normal color. And her anger is creeping back. Why  _ should _ she be embarrassed? Thrawn hadn’t hurt her. And nothing in her dreams of him had hurt her, either. Only Juahir had done that.

 

Juahir is still examining the minute details of Arihnda’s expression, searching fruitlessly for some piece knowledge she can only get by asking. “I mean… I'm not saying this is a bad thing, it's just… yesterday you were very…. with me you were sort of… and I mean it’s not that the  _ all _ noise you made last night sounded  _ bad,  _ exactly  _ —  _ I mean  _ mostly _ they didn't sound bad — but it's very — it's just very different, from you. You don't seem like yourself, I guess, and I really want to make sure you're okay. That you're really okay. That you're going to be okay.”

 

Arihnda forces herself to relax her grip on her mug, forces herself to take a calming breath, forces herself to return Juahir’s searching gaze with a calm, collected expression of her own. “I'm fine. I promise. This is just — it is very different for me, you're right. I think I'm just adjusting. But I'm really fine.”

 

Juahir seems to relax a bit; she seems reassured. Her searching look is replaced with something a little sly, and a little humorous. “Well, okay then,” she says, starting to smile. “And you know, I’d be lying if I said I didn't want to know just exactly what he managed to do to you.”

 

Arihnda gives Juahir a smile of her own. It's a bit smug and a little bit nasty but Juahir seems not to notice. “I guess you’ll just have to live in wonder,” Arihnda says.

 

Being in the office is easier, too. People are still staying out of her way but she's not outright nasty with anyone. She even manages to imitate a friendly smile a few times. She settles into her workstation and starts digging into Higher Skies’ data, the data Driller thinks is secret, right away.

 

She spends some time kicking herself for not having cottoned on earlier. Higher Skies’ record keeping is too complex, too layered and opaque, for anything like a real advocacy group. Now that she knows what she's looking at, it's all plain as day, as obvious as Driller’s tacky, absurdly expensive haircut and Juahir’s tight clubbing outfits. But she still feels she should have seen it sooner. Mostly she thinks she didn't want to see it.

 

She's churning over the data in three streams, in her head, at the same time: three parallel tracks running straight towards a single, shifting solution, an amalgam of knotted, writhing threads that she’ll slice through once she’s chosen the right blade. The three tracks are these: how to use Higher Skies’ information to keep Ghadi in place until she's able to feed him to Tarkin; how to get to Tarkin in a way that makes sure she gets the credit instead of giving all the glory to the ISB; and how to secure a goddamn hotel room, which matters to her very much indeed.

 

She wants a nice one. It really doesn't matter  _ where  _ Thrawn fucks her, she knows: the instant and insistent ache between her legs whenever she thinks of him, the one that plagued her all night and has distracted her several times already today, makes her feel like she'd strip naked and bend over in the center of the senate during a full session if he asked her to, but she would prefer to be somewhere that doesn't feel cheap and sad. She'd rather be somewhere comfortable and clean. She wants to be fucked on a bed with a frame that doesn't creak, with a mattress that isn't full of lumps, with sheets that don't itch.

 

She's churning over this problem with a tight, unpleasant frown on her face when Driller comes by. He approaches her desk from the front and calls out her name when he's still a few feet away. Both these things are unusual for him, and both tell her that he's worried about her mood, and both put her on alert.  _ Get yourself together,  _ the alert says.  _ Play nice. _

 

“Feeling any better?” he asks when he's standing in front of her.

 

“Yes,” she lies, “much.” Then she adds: “But I think it's still better if I stick to data work for a while.”

 

“Totally fine,” he says, “but not for too long, alright? I have a project I want you on — I mentioned it yesterday. Is this a good time? Can I tell you about it?” Which is also unusual. It's a sign that she’d been even worse than she realized yesterday, and it's a warning that she had better rebuild some bridges, and fast, if she wants to get to the end of this road.

 

She forces herself to sit up straight, and look at Driller with something more like her usual getting-new-work face: keen, attentive, hungry, a little pleased and a little pleased with herself.

 

“Sure,” she says. “And Driller, I really am sorry about yesterday.” It's such a good imitation of sincere, friendly contrition that even she can hardly hear the difference.

 

“Oh,” says Driller, “it's fine, really. Don't worry about it.” He hasn't asked about Ottlis; she assumes that Juahir told him the news, which is fine. “Anyway, new assignment.” He hands her a data card. “Do you think you can get Senator Hem on our side? Actually, it’ll probably be a milk run for you. No one recruits the fine-and-fancy hard-to-reach as well as you.”

 

Which is true. And it's going to hurt her when all the rarefied Coruscanti hoi polloi she's gotten friendly with on Higher Skies’ behalf realize what the little advocacy group has really been doing.

 

But she has time to lay the groundwork for her redemption. She has time to plant the seeds of friendship with  _ Arihnda Pryce _ instead of  _ Higher Skies. _ And Senator Hem could be a very good friend.

 

She smiles. “I could use a milk run. And this sounds like a real pleasure; you know I love spending time at the Senate building. You’ll have to give me some time to read up on Phindians, though.”

 

“Take all the time you need,” Driller says quite seriously. “This is a big fish, and we need him hooked. He's on the central military budget committee and —”

 

Driller stops himself abruptly. Arihnda knows exactly why. She almost lets him twist on the end of his own runaway sentence for a minute. Almost. “Imperial Military budgets suck up the money that should be going to social causes,” she says with an artful blend of enthusiasm and righteous offense. “And we know they're lying about how much money it's sucking up. Senator Hem will have access to the  _ real  _ data.”

 

“Exactly.” Driller’s face and voice alike are awash with tangible relief. “Yes, that's it exactly. Knew I could count on you, Arihnda. Let me know if you need anything, whatever you want. And the client gift account is totally open to you for this one, spend whatever you need.”

 

_ The client gift account.  _ Something in the back of Arihnda’s mind clicks into place. She knows that feeling well. She glories in it. It feels like the rev of a racing engine. Her mind is about to serve up a plan, whole and complete. She's got the answer to a problem. 

 

“Thanks, Driller,” she says, her voice a little higher and faster now. “I’ll let you know. Actually, I was just in the middle of something —”

 

“Oh, sure, of course,” he says, backing off must faster than he ever would have before her foul mood yesterday. “Sure. Just let me know when you need something.”

 

She flashes him a winning smile — or tries to. It comes out a bit stiff. “Of course,” she says. “You know me. I always get what I need.”

 

Driller retreats and Arihnda doesn't even bother to wait until he's a polite distance away before diving back into her terminal. 

 

The client gift account. Like all advocacy groups, Higher Skies has a couple of slush funds around for the sort of glad-handing investments that help grease the gears of good political friendship. The gift account is one; there are also travel, dining, and entertainment accounts. Driller monitors them all, personally. He's very good at it, too: attentive, keen, detail-oriented. He doesn't seem like it, but when it comes to money, he's sober, responsible, and smart as a whip, even if his tastes are expensive. Using the public accounts to rent a hotel suite is out of the question.

 

But now that she knows what she knows, Arihnda is willing to bet there are more accounts than that. Private ones. Secret ones. Ones that by their nature are much, much more difficult to monitor well. And if Driller does notice things going wrong with them, it will only serve to spark a witch hunt that will reveal more of Higher Skies’ network. It will only give her more gifts for Tarkin and the ISB. 

 

It's perfect.

 

And it helps her clarify the best way to coordinate with Yularen. Thrawn is right; the second her intelligence hits an ISB data server it becomes vulnerable. It's much more secure with her. But she won’t sit on it alone; she’ll work with an ISB agent all the way along. She'd already decided this, yesterday. But the hotel, paid for by Higher Skies, gives her a secure and convenient place to do that, too.

 

All she has to do is tell Thrawn, and have him talk to Yularen. Though he won't talk to Yularen about _ all  _ of it, she hopes.

 

She goes out of the office for lunch. It's unusual for her and Driller might notice but she just has to live with that. She drives her speeder somewhere reasonably quiet and sends Thrawn a quick message —  _ call when convenient, soon, please —  _ and waits. He calls back very quickly, which she likes and could easily get used to.

 

“Miss Pryce. How may I be of assistance?”

 

Her entire body responds to the sound of him the way it’s been responding to the thought of him all day, and she needs a half a second more than usual to get her thoughts in order. “I talked to someone about your ship,” she blurts out. It isn't where she'd planned to start, but she follows up on it anyway, words tumbling out in a bit of a rush. “He might need a few days to get things moving, but I wanted to let you know.”

 

“Is this what you called to tell me?”

 

“No, just part of it. The other thing is more of a favor,” she says. “I was thinking about how I’m going to fix our little problems, and I think I need some extra help from the ISB to do it. I thought you could help me coordinate that.”

 

There is a pause. Then he says: “I believe we have already discussed the problems inherent in handing your information over to the ISB at this stage.”

 

“Yes,” she says, “but that's not exactly what I'm suggesting. I think we should tell Yularen about this now. You're right about keeping files out of the ISB data banks as long as we can, but you're wrong to leave Yularen out of it. Talk to him right away. Tell him as much as you can; at least the general outline. Have him advise and assist. He can do that without generating a data trail, or filing reports, or logging my information into any ISB systems. But I want him involved — I want him informed, and I want you to coordinate communications between him and me. That way, there won’t be any problem with my sitting on the intelligence I already have; I’ll be your informant, and it will be a proper investigation under ISB supervision. When I do finally get the right moment to go to Tarkin, it won’t be as just some advocacy chit with a chip on her shoulder, it will be with ISB approval, and the whole operation will be perfectly above-board from the Imperial point of view. Call Yularen. Tell him. And when you're done with that, I’d like to talk to him directly, if that's possible. Preferably tonight.”

 

There is another pause. Then he says: “Very well. Your reasons are sound.” This gives her a little electric thrill and she smiles in spite of herself. He continues apace: “What do you suggest for a meeting place? I assume you have thought it through.”

 

“In fact I have. I’ll send you details for a hotel.”

 

“That may become more conspicuous than you anticipate,” he says, and she can practically hear him frowning. “Especially with three of us. And, I assume, different arrival and departure times for each.” This detail gives her another thrill, but she sets it aside.

 

“No,” she says, relishing the chance to correct him, to show off a bit. “We’ll go somewhere high-end.  _ Very  _ high end. Expensive hotels know their clientele value privacy; they're very serious about it, too. Half of advocacy work is just digging up details on personal lives, did you know that? It's about knowing what buttons to push. I spend a lot of time trying to pry gossip out of waiters, maids, drivers — and I'm very good at it.” This isn't even a boast; Arihnda is clever and shrewd and observant and  _ superior  _ at her job. She doesn't even sound smug when she says it. She's simply stating a fact. It’s a fact that makes getting snowed by Juahir and Driller and Ottlis so much the worse, but still a fact. “I've never found any targets as tight-lipped and tough to crack as top-tier concierge,” she continues. “Except for butlers, maybe. Being discreet is the better part of their job and they have, on the whole, a great deal of professional pride. And if they know the ISB is involved — which we should actually tell the hotel manager, discreetly of course, it will make life  _ much  _ easier — they’ll be doubly quiet. No, we’ll use a hotel. A very expensive one.”

 

Another pause. “And you are expecting the ISB to… I believe the expression is ‘foot the bill?’”

 

“No. Higher Skies is going to pay for the hotel.”

 

A much longer pause, this time. Then, in a subtly disapproving tone that makes her instantly annoyed, he begins to lecture at her: “I believe you have just expressed a desire to make sure these activities are viewed as legitimate by the ISB, Miss Pryce. If, on the other hand, your intention is to keep these meetings secret from the ISB, using Higher Skies’ funds is most unwise. When this case is handed over to the ISB, they will follow up on all of Higher Skies’ expenses, including this one, and —”

 

“No,” says Arihnda, cutting him off, “that’s exactly why it’s perfect, don’t you see? I’ll explain.” And she launches a staccato onslaught of her opinions. “If we’re meeting for no reason at all, and someone finds out, we have our reputations to worry about, right? If either of us pays for it personally, it's clearly inappropriate. And neither of us has a reason to rent a room anyway — you have your housing provided and even if I could afford it, which I can't, I already have an apartment. If anyone found out, it would be very difficult to explain away. If we’re meeting for official business, there are only two entities who might reasonably pay for it: Higher Skies or the ISB. If the ISB — actually,” she says, taking a breath and forcing her rapid-fire delivery to slow to a just sub-conversational speed, “why don't you tell me what's difficult about having the ISB pay for a spot?”

 

There is a very short silence, and then his voice comes over the speaker: deep, precise, smooth. Between her legs, her cunt is growing tight and warm and thrumming with eager desire. Arihnda shifts in her seat, a little uncomfortable, and tries to focus on the  _ conversation  _ instead of the increasingly insistent ache between her legs.

 

“It would be best for the ISB to be aware of our investigation,” he begins. “From their perspective, it will appear that you are a confidential informant, and I am your contact, working on this investigation cooperatively with Colonel Yularen. This will protect both your privacy and mine by providing a legitimate, above-board explanation for our meetings — you have doubled this enterprise to our other, more personal matter, obviously.” Her cunt hums more enthusiastically still. He continues: “The nature of the investigation and your role as confidential informant of course make the anonymity and privacy afforded by a discreet meeting place both desirable and justifiable. However,” he says with faint emphasis, and she feels a different anticipatory thrill, one that has nothing to do with sex, but which nevertheless feeds the other sensations in her body, “if the ISB pays for the room, our connection, as well as the investigation, becomes instantly subject to the same dangers that make it a poor idea to hand over the actual data on Moff Ghadi and Higher Skies any earlier than is necessary. After the fact, the ISB will be happy to wave away any accounting irregularities that arise from a confidential informant embezzling her employer to help further their investigation, but in the present term it will be more secure for you to control the funding source completely, and have it remain anonymous and off the ISB’s books. Is that roughly the outline of your reasoning?”

 

Between her legs, her cunt contracts like a pulse. It's beyond thrilling to listen to him pick up the half-finished frame of her idea and paint the full picture inside it. “Yes,” she says, voice a little shaky. “That's it exactly.” She takes a breath. “Don't you think it's good?” Which is a little more revealing of a phrase than she'd like, and is delivered with entirely too much honest emotion, but her wits aren't fully about her.

 

“I think it is soundly reasoned, Miss Pryce. You will send me the relevant details?”

 

“Yes,” she says. “Thank you.” 

 

“Very well.” He terminates the call without saying goodbye, which is fine, because Arihnda now has another very immediate problem to solve.

 

She takes the route back to the office perhaps a little faster than she should, and when she arrives at the building, she goes directly to the fresher. She isn't sure how conspicuously hurried she is on her way and she doesn't entirely care; she  _ is  _ hurried. She locks the door. It's a very clean fresher, which is good, because she's never been able to successfully do what she's going to do while standing. Fevered, she undoes her slacks and shoves both them and her underthings down to her knees, and then sinks to the cold, tiled floor. Sitting there, knees bent, legs as far apart at the waistband of her slacks will allow, head thrown back against the wall, eyes closed, she dips a hand between her legs and thinks of Thrawn and works her clit with two fingers in desperate, alternating strokes as fast as she can until she cums. Her clit is mostly recovered from her marathon night, and but she still doesn't need very long before she's riding the edge of an orgasm. Her cunt still feels as if Thrawn's voice is humming inside it and she has the weird, completely irrational feeling that she is somehow defying Juahir and Driller and the everyone else by being as perverse as possible. She can hear her colleagues in passing outside the door and the sense that they might somehow know what she's doing only heightens her nerves. When she cums her hips are rocking against her fingers compulsively and she has to press her free hand to her mouth to stop herself from making a noise that absolutely will get her found out. She keeps rubbing her clit like a woman possessed a little longer than she usually would — hardly for a moment or two after her orgasm starts, but it's an extra moment or two more than she's ever gone before.

 

After she stops, a little of reality sinks in.

 

And she finds she doesn't care. No one could see her through the door, and none of these people are worth the respect it would take to make her feel ashamed even if they could. She draws her hand up from between her legs and curls it near her face and breathes. Just like at the hotel, she likes the way she smells. After a minute, she maneuvers herself up from the floor. She decides she's not even going to wipe herself off; the burst of slickness from her little orgasm is neatly contained by the folds of her cunt anyway. She can spend the rest of the day feeling soft and slippery and enjoying the fact that she has more than one good secret. She pulls up her underthings and redoes her slacks very carefully, keeping her two drying fingers off the fabric as best she can. Before she goes back to her desk she wipes her fingers carefully with the overpriced toilet tissue Driller insists on buying, but she doesn't wash her hands.

 

She spends the rest of her day at her desk, combing through Higher Skies’ finances with hawkish attention to detail. Whenever she is reading instead of typing, she leans forward on her desk and rests her face against her right hand, and breathes in the faint traces of her own scent. 

 

Which is a fine way to spend the rest of the day, piecing together the money and breaking it apart again, moving a bit here and a bit there, and daydreaming quietly in the back of her mind about being touched, moved, manipulated, split open — she just has to get this all in order, first, and talk to Yularen, and then she can have what she wants.

 

She sends Thrawn a message at about 4 PM and he gets back to her at 4:15. She’s chosen the hotel, rerouted the correct funds, made a booking, and will have the keys and room numbers delivered to her companions by some  _ exceptionally  _ discreet couriers she has encountered a few times before.  _ We will meet at nine,  _ his response says. It says nothing else; it doesn’t need to.

 

Normally, she’d head to the dojo after work, but facing Ottlis is well beyond the realm of what she can tolerate today. She doesn’t leave at her normal time. Driller inches up to her, cautiously, again. “Not going to practice, Arihnda?”

 

“No,” she says, not even looking up from the terminal. “Doing some reading on Phindians generally, and on Senator Hem.” Which is true. Arihnda has never let anything distract her  _ too  _ much from her work.

 

“Well… Don’t stay too late,” he says lamely. After a non-responsive moment on Arihnda’s part, he withdraws. She really  _ will  _ need to put her mind to making nice again, but “working hard” is a good enough excuse for now.

 

She gets a bit wrapped up in the reading. She’s not familiar with Phindians and there’s a lot to absorb. It’s the kind of project she enjoys, too: building the frame of a person in her mind, trying to understand how to move them, trying to find the quickest way to get them to do as she wants. It’s almost nine when she notices the clock.

 

She curses softly to herself. It takes her a few minutes to shut down everything at her terminal properly. She can’t afford to be sloppy about anything, not for a moment, going forward. At the last minute, she slips into the fresher and washes her hands. It’s quarter to ten when she makes it to the room.

 

Yularen and Thrawn are sitting with the practiced, empty boredom perfected by men who have served many years in the Navy. “Miss Pryce,” Thrawn intones, his voice going straight to her cunt, “you are late.”

 

_ What happened to patience being a virtue?  _ is on the tip of her tongue but she bites it back just in time. “Sorry,” she says. Then she turns all her attention on Yularen and keeps it there like a laser, trying her best to block Thrawn from her awareness for the rest of the meeting. Either Thrawn catches the point, and wants to be helpful, or he doesn’t think his own input will be valuable. In either case, he does not speak again during the conversation. “Colonel Yularen.” She holds out a hand. “Thank you for coming. I’m Arihnda Pryce. We met briefly, during Ascension Week, two years ago. I thought if the Commander has already gotten you up to speed —”

 

“Miss Pyrce,” says Yularen, to cut her off, “hello.” He shakes her hand, very briefly. “I think it would be best if you just told your story from the beginning, instead of worrying about what Commander Thrawn has or hasn’t covered yet?”

 

“Of course,” she says.

 

This room is infinitely superior to the last. It’s an entire suite, and they able to sit at a table, all of them, like civilized beings. Thankfully for Arihnda, and again perhaps intentionally, Thrawn sits at the far end, while Yularen and Arihnda sit side-by-each. Arihnda has a presentation tailored to the ISB’s interests on a data pad, something she threw together after securing her money and before starting to read about Phindians, and she walks Yularen through it. It covers everything she knows, and everything she expects to be able to learn. It explains what she expects she’ll be able to prove if the ISB  _ permits  _ her to continue working with Commander Thrawn, which is  _ of course  _ Yularen’s decision to make, what she expects that information might allow the ISB to accomplish later. It names the Moffs she thinks are disloyal, and the rebels whose disloyalty is of a completely different sort — Yularen lets her go through all of it, and then asks only one question: “This  _ looks  _ excellent, Miss Pryce, but I’m afraid you need to explain  _ how  _ you put it all together if you want my help. Can you do that?”

 

And she’s ready for that, too. The details of her history, both personal and professional, come out easily this time — because she has said them before, because she had rehearsed them to herself today, and because she is, although he may not know it, trusting Thrawn to make her feel better about all of it after Yularen is gone.

 

Arihnda delivers her story in a brusque and businesslike way, but Yularen manages to shove some fatherly sympathy in her direction in spite of that. She’d always thought that things like her experience with Ottlis would make her appear useless and pathetic, but it seems that Yularen and Thrawn both respond to her plight by seeing her as someone in need of comfort and protection, and in their own ways each seems eager to assume the role.

 

Thrawn and Yularen depart together; Arihnda pleads some desire for privacy and a moment of rest, and Yularen acceeds that leaving her behind in the room is not a problem. After all, it’s her room anyway, in a strange fashion.

 

Thrawn returns about an hour later. Arihnda is sitting at the table, in the chair she was in before he left, although she had not stayed there for the full hour. She had used the fresher, and used the sink as a makeshift bidet, and resisted the urge to help herself cum yet again. Mostly she has spent the hour thinking about how Thrawn’s hands feel on her skin and how his erect cock feels inside her. To a lesser extent she has been thinking about Yularen. To an even lesser extent she has been thinking about Phindians. 

 

“That went very well,” Thrawn says approvingly when he closes the door. “Colonel Yularen is most impressed by you — and, I believe, feels some affection for you, too. I suspect you remind him of a niece, or perhaps a daughter.”

 

“Yes,” she says, abstractedly. “I noticed that. It’s very useful.”

 

Thrawn gives her a long, narrow long. “It is useful, yes,” he allows finally, not exactly in a tone of approval. He remains standing in the doorway. “Miss Pryce, I have a question which you will likely not enjoy.”

 

Arihnda is tired and in no mood for long discourses. She wants to lay on the very expensive bed she’s stolen from Driller to pay for, and get fucked the way she’s been dreaming of on and off all day. She wants  _ very _ badly to get on with getting what she wants, and this interruption is decidedly not that. “Whatever it is, just ask it quickly, would you?”

 

“I am wondering if perhaps there is not some reason other than logistics you have chosen to siphon funds from Higher Skies to pay for a meeting place, and if there is not some reason other than logistics you have chosen this particular hotel.”

 

Arihnda was raised in a hard-figures business and she has a good head for calculations. More than that, she understands money. She understands money very, very well. She knows balance sheets and ledgers and accountancy like pilots know the stars. She had calculated out very carefully how much she could take from Higher Skies, and when, and over what period. She had calculated the absolute  _ maximum  _ she could rip from Driller’s hands (which was really quite a lot) and had then selected the best hotel she could within her allotted budget. But she knows he’s not really asking about any of the practical procedures or logical justifications related to that process, most of which she has described for him already. Yes, there is a reason other than logistics. Obviously, he already knows what it is.

 

“You think I’m being vengeful.” She looks at him a bit sourly when she says it.

 

“I think it is dangerously personal — a concept I believe we have already discussed.”

 

“They owe me,” she says viciously. “They all owe me. Driller owes me.”

 

“And he will pay you. Everyone at Higher Skies and most people at Yinchom will pay you, Miss Pryce, with the better part, if not the entirety, of the rest of their lives. Or do you expect them to walk off free and unharmed after a few friendly conversations with Imperial Intelligence? Some of them may be turned into useful assets but the rest will be imprisoned, likely until they die.”

 

She pauses a long time at this. “You’re saying I should just… not worry about it.”

 

“In my experience, the path of life itself evens some things out. You might trust to that now and then, and save yourself some trouble. Direct your energies where they will be more useful, and benefit you more. ‘Just a thought,’ I think is the appropriate expression.”

 

“It is,” she says slowly. “Did you only learn it recently?”

 

“Earlier today, in fact, from Jakeeb. I asked him for assistance in constructing two private comm for us, which should be completed by the end of the week. He suggested that you sounded like someone who was more interested by in-person communication than any other kind, and that it was perhaps unnecessary to invest in such well-secured commutation lines. He said it was ‘just a thought,’ and Vanto clarified that this was an idiomatic term.”

 

There are many, many layers to this. She sits silently for a few moments, absorbing them, trying to find a suitably non-confrontational way to ask who the hell Jakeeb is, and just what in kriffing hell has been said about her, and to whom it has been said. Thrawn seems to catch the mood of the silence — which is likely written all over her face — before she can form a suitable question.

 

“If you are worried that your privacy has been violated in some way, do not be. Jakeeb is a technical specialist under my command. He served with me aboard the  _ Blood Crow _ and recently requested a transfer to the  _ Thunder Wasp _ . He is quite safe. He has voiced numerous complaints about the slow pace of repairs and I told him I had an acquaintance who was trying to help, but who wished to remain anonymous. I requested that he provide us a secure means of communication — more permanent than what he provided for our last two calls, with which he also assisted. He was similarly unaware of your identity in those cases, be assured, and he did not listen to either conversation. He asked who our anonymous benefactor was and I said that the  _ Thunder Wasp _ had a friend who worked in politics, as an advocate. Jakeeb is familiar with Coruscant, and, I believe, made an inference about your personality based solely on your profession. He does not know your name or anything else about you, but I would trust him to protect that information if he did. Does that assuage your concerns?”

 

“It… yes. Yes, it does,” she says slowly. She feels as though she is being drawn into a circle of strangers, like a place is being made for her at a crowded and unfamiliar table. She is not sure how she feels about it — but as she sits primly in the strangely easy silence between them, she feels as though she can be more honest with him. “You’re right, I am angry,” she says, finally. “I’m really very, very angry.”

 

“Yes, I divined as much. It is not unexpected.”

 

“I  _ am  _ feeling vengeful. I  _ do  _ want to hurt them. Ghadi. Driller. Ottlis.” She pauses a moment. “Juahir,” she adds finally.

 

“Your friend with whom you live?”

 

“I almost — I can hardly stand to look at her.”

 

“And your decision to exploit this matter in the manner you have planned has forced you to accept a sustained period of contact with her, with Driller, and with your other colleagues, wherein you must continue to play your role, acting as if your feelings towards them have not changed. You find this is more stressful for you than you anticipated.”

 

“I’m managing.” It’s a defensive reflex, and only partly true. She backtracks a little. “I’m managing alright, but it  _ is _ more difficult than I expected.” She pauses. “I’m hoping you’ll help me with it.” It’s still very strange, asking for help. She’s still not used to it, even though it’s worked out just fine every time she’s asked him so far.

 

“And how exactly do you expect me to help?”

 

“Doing what you’re doing now. And doing what we did the other night.”

 

“Yes. I assumed that was one of your expectations for the evening.” He is still standing in the entryway. He makes no other move, and his face remains calm and still. A wave of confusion tamps down the pleasant, expectant humming between Arihnda’s legs.

 

“Wasn’t it… It wasn’t one of yours?” she asks.

 

“It was. We are, as discussed, a good fit. But I should like to try making an adjustment.”

 

She takes a deep breath. “What kind of adjustment did you have in mind?”

 

“I believe I have demonstrated my competence in this area.”

 

Which strikes Arihnda as a downright hilarious thing for him to say, but he seems perfectly serious, so she clamps down on her own sudden laughter and manages to say: “Yes.”

 

“And I believe we have established some level of trust.”

 

Again, this is somewhat funny, but decidedly less so. Arihnda answers more soberly. “Yes.”

 

“I believe it would not be entirely out of line for me to reiterate a request to which you were not entirely amenable, last time.”

 

Which is not funny at all. She really can’t think of what it was she wasn’t amenable to, and it’s nerves, not laughter, she has to master this time. “I suppose that depends on the request.”

 

“I would appreciate it if you made an effort to leave me with slightly less guesswork.”

 

Which is exactly what Arihnda doesn’t want, all over again. Yes, she remembers this part perfectly. She was not remotely amenable to a conversation about their mutual desires and possibly less mutual expectations last time, and she is still not amenable. She doesn’t even know  _ how  _ to have the kind of conversation he’s asking for. Instead of saying that, she says, only a little lamely: “You seemed very good at guessing.”

 

“I agree that I am very good at guessing,” he says dryly. Something very subtle that isn't exactly a smile pulls at his mouth. It is mostly made of ego and it thrills Arihnda in an explicitly carnal way, which makes her very annoyed with herself. “And,” he continues, “I am certainly capable of guessing just as well again. However,” his tone sobers quickly, “I would prefer not to have to guess everything all of the time.”

 

And that’s… very reasonable, Arihnda has to admit. It’s a perfectly fair request. And she’d known it was fair when he’d asked her to talk the night before last, too. She wants to try and tell him it had worked just fine for her before — and then she remembers the feeling of her hands around his throat, of getting no help being told if she was doing what he wanted or how long she should keep on, and she winces. Of course she should communicate more effectively. She can at least try. She sets her hands flat on the table before her, steadying herself. “How would you like me to help you… not guess?”

 

“It would make my life infinitely easier if you could describe what, exactly, you enjoy.”

 

“I — how… you mean… how specific do you want me to be?”

 

“I would like for you to be as specific as you can.”

 

“I think that doesn’t leave much room for spontaneity.” Which even she knows is patently untrue, but she’s twisting uncomfortably on the end of this hook, now that he’s caught her, and she wants very much to find an escape.

 

“We are not engaged in choreography,” he says, and the dry tone is back. “There will still be room for improvisation. Consider it a framework for negotiations.”

 

She tries to escape one last time. “So, ‘let’s do exactly as we did last time’ is really not good enough?”

 

“No, it is not. At least not tonight. I will be happy to deliver a repeat performance in the future, if required, but I do not wish for it to become a pattern.”

 

She sits with that for a minute. “Do you mean you want me to be specific before, or… during?” 

 

“Both, for preference,” he says. “The latter, if forced to choose. I believe you should expand your vocabulary during sex well beyond the words ‘no’ and ‘stop’ — although I appreciate that you at least use those when necessary.” That makes her wince a little, too.

 

“You want me to tell you what I want… now? Before we start? To — what, describe in detail for you what I think I’d like you to do?” And she hopes he’s going to say no.

 

He raises an eyebrow. She thinks this is perhaps not  _ exactly  _ what he meant. But he says: “That would be fine, yes.”

 

Of course he’d said yes. Perhaps it wasn’t  _ precisely  _ what he had in mind but now that she’s made the offer, obviously he would say yes. It’s something else about her he can consider, dissect, analyze. Of course he would let her trap herself like this. And it’s not that she doesn’t have any idea about the right vocabulary — she’s told men what she wants before, of course. But she’s only done it out of necessity and desperation, only at the end of her rope, and only in the bare minimum of words. What he’s asking for is quite different than saying  _ stop that,  _ or _ no, like this, _ or  _ this way, dammit _ , or  _ you can leave now. _ What he’s asking of her makes her feel more vulnerable than bending her body over and letting him slide his cock inside her. She’d much rather avoid it.

 

He’s looking at her with that keen, even gaze. Waiting. Only waiting. She can’t avoid it.

 

She curls her hands into fists and takes a breath. With him standing in the entryway and her sitting straight-backed in a chair at the table she feels almost like she’s preparing for an interview — which is fine, she’s always been perfect at those. She returns his gaze. She is not going to fold now, like flimsi.

 

“I want —” she says, sounding confrontational, then stops. Thinks for a minute. Tries a different start, something to ease herself into it: “I did, really, like everything you did last time. I liked all of it. I'd like you to do it all again.” Which is already more honest and revealing than she's ever been with a lover. Not that any of the other men who'd fucked her before could be described as lovers, really. Not that he is, either. She hesitates, then adds: “I think I'd like to be lying down, though. For most of it.”

 

He raises an eyebrow. “Nothing more specific than that?”

 

“I'm getting to it,” she snaps. Not her best interview manners. Something that might be amusement flickers faintly over his face. She flexes her hands against the table. “I liked what you did with your fingers,” she says slowly. “I liked… everything you did with your fingers. I want…” She thinks of the ways he'd touched her, the night before last, and the ways she's touched herself since then. “This room has a very nice bed. It was one of the things I made sure of, when I was looking. I’d like to lay down on it. And I want you on top, and I want you to touch me, with your fingers, like before.” 

 

“Can you be more specific?”

 

And that's just like him, she decides. She hardly knows him but it still seems very  _ him,  _ to ask a person to do something they feel is beyond them, that they think they can't do, and the moment they do it, to ask them to try and do just a little more.

 

But she has always been bold. Not so much about her own pleasure during sex but about most things, by her nature, she has been bold. Having permission to be bold about this, too, feels right. And being pushed feels right, too. She wants to push herself. She wants to push herself as far as she thinks she can go, and then just a little further than that. Like boldness, extremity is in her nature. It is in her career, in her hobbies, in her ambitions — and, she realizes, it is part of what she wants from sex. She remembers the feeling she had before she made him stop fucking her the last time. She wants to follow it to its end; she wants to find that place, beyond that further rise. She wants to know exactly how far she can go. And finds she does have an image forming in her mind. 

 

Yes, she  _ can  _ be more specific.

 

She raises her chin and gathers her courage, which comes partly from her own sense of self but also, to a surprising degree, from what she perceives as his confidence in her, and she begins to specify. Her speech is slow and a little halting at first, but as she holds his steady gaze, she finds it becomes easier and easier to share exactly what she wants.  “I want you touch me like you did at first, right at the beginning, when I complained. And then again after I — like you did after we had to start over. I think I… I think I like it slow. And I think you’re very good at it. Touch me like that. I want you make me — make me  _ almost  _ cum. I want you to make me cry for it.” She likes the sound of that, coming out of her own mouth. She likes the feeling of having said it. She will definitely like when he does it. She raises her chin a little higher. “And then I want you to put your fingers inside me. I want you to fuck me with your fingers until I  _ do  _ cum. I want… I want you not to stop, when I do. I want more than last time. I want to know how much — I want to know what it’s like.” And this is not exactly specific, but it’s the best she can do. She pauses briefly after saying it. “ _ Then _ ,” she says, voice very precise, “I want you to flip me over and fuck me. I want you fuck me hard from behind, just like before. I want you to fuck me until you cum. I want you to cum inside me. I want to feel you cum inside me.” 

 

She is sitting very straight, looking directly at him, steady as a marksman, chin high and shoulders just slightly back. She's almost a little bit proud of herself, and she’s almost back to feeling excited to begin. She raises an eyebrow, as if to say  _ don’t you like it?  _

 

For a moment, he doesn’t respond. There is something considering around his eyes. “You seemed to need to stop, last time.”

 

She swallows, hesitates, then decides: “I did. And I can always change my mind, if I have to again. You’ll stop, if I say.” It’s almost, barely, a question.

 

“I will.”

 

“Good. Then I’ll say if I have to, but I want to… I want to see how much I can — I want to know, if you’ll help me.”

 

“Very well,” he says after a moment, tone quite serious. “You will tell me when you are ready to begin.”

 

It feels, for a moment, like a victory. Then she has a thought: “Would you like to tell me what you want?”

 

“No,” he says, quite bluntly. Which is  _ utterly  _ unfair and  _ exactly  _ like him and feels like a bit of a slap. Then he continues: “I think for tonight it will be enough for me to provide you with what you have described.”

 

Which moves her from irritated to pleased quite quickly, and makes her heart flutter a little. “Oh,” she says, trying not to sound breathless. “Oh. Well, I think I’m ready to start now.”

 

“Are you?” He might be teasing — just a little, gently so. Maybe. It’s very subtle and she’s not sure. “I will follow you.”

 

She was careful to get a room where the bed was behind a door that closed. That had seemed important to her, at the time: having a separation of spaces. Looking at him standing, relaxed, waiting, she isn’t sure the bed or the extra door really matter at all. She almost wants to say  _ come fuck me on this table. _ Instead, she stands, very brusquely, and walks to the bedroom, which is to the right of where she was sitting. She moves as if she were walking to a meeting — mostly because she doesn’t know any other way to walk.

 

In the room, which is really very nice, almost a real bedroom, with a dresser and bedside tables and a private bath, she stops again, and turns to him. He is standing in the doorway, watching her.

 

“Do you think —” it’s a half-formed thought, a sudden inspiration. “Do you think you could undress me first?”

 

That sardonic brow of his really can climb quite high. “Of course.”

 

And he does. It’s a little more efficient than last time, but she likes it just as well. And there is something she likes very much about what happens at the end, after he slides her underthings down to her ankles. 

 

When he is crouched before her, he pauses and examines the bruises on her hips. They are already healing, fading from black to green and yellow; she has always been resilient. But he runs a finger around one, carefully, frowning, all the same. “They're fine,” she says quickly, not wanting him to become hesitant in touching her. “They're really fine. I don't mind them.” 

 

He stands solemnly. “Do you not?” His tone is the same as it was when he'd called Renking’s actions towards her  _ not correct behavior,  _ the same as when he’d told her  _ I think you have been mistreated.  _ It makes her heart flutter wildly. 

 

“They are,” she assures him. “They really are. I like them.”

 

He doesn't say anything to that, but there's disapproval in the set of his mouth, and that makes her heart flutter, too. She  _ does _ like the bruises, but she likes the fact that he doesn't even more.

 

She finds, with a sudden tingling, all-over thrill that she enjoys immensely how small and vulnerable and completely safe she feels standing naked in front of this very tall, very strong man who is still in his uniform, this man who is proficient in violence and who could hurt her but won’t _._ This man who doesn't _want_ to hurt her. This man she trusts, alone of everyone she knows on Coruscant, not to hurt her. Something about it, contrary to all reason, makes her feel powerful. Special. Important _._ She shivers, just a little, and for half a second she wants to throw all her other requests out the window and ask him to keep his on uniform and fuck her, right now, however he pleases — face to face, from behind, against the wall, on the floor, she doesn’t care so long as he holds her firmly with his hands and fills her with his cock and makes her scream. Instead she says, voice a little uneven: “Do you think you can help me pull the covers down on the bed? I don’t want to fuck on the duvet.”

 

Something happens on his face which he masters  _ very  _ quickly but which nevertheless conveys the distinct impression that he is trying not to laugh at her. She doesn’t think she’d mind much if he did; some part of her knows she deserves it. “Of course,” he says, a little more solemnly than is required. And he does. 

 

He pulls the covers down from one side and she pulls in tandem from the other. She likes this, too: how safe and mundane it feels, like something her parents might do together. The thrill she gets from that scares her a great deal. She scrambles onto the bed as if she could scramble away from the thoughts in her head. “Now you,” she says. “Get undressed.”

 

That sardonic brow again. But he complies. She likes  _ that,  _ too, when she tells him to do things and he does them. She likes that very much. And she likes watching him undress, which she didn’t get to do — didn’t let herself do — the last time. He’s efficient and precise, and manages, somehow, to fold everything neatly virtually the second he takes it off. Her clothes are a rumpled pile on the floor where he’s dropped them, but his are a neatly stacked little block on the end of the dresser. 

 

After he puts his socks, last to come off, on top of the lot, he turns to her and says “Shall we begin?”

 

“Y — no,” she says, surprising herself. “Let me look at you a minute.”

 

Both his eyebrows raise at this, and she feels a little chastised. She wants to look at him for a long time, but she can sense, or thinks she can sense, a certain degree of annoyance on his part, so she only looks for a very short moment. “Alright,” she says, “come here.”

 

It’s a little awkward, arranging themselves — or at least it feels awkward to Arihnda, who has never been required to participate so actively in setting up for some scene mutually agreed upon. She has never before negotiated on or decided anything with a partner in advance. He seems to view the whole operation as merely pragmatic, however, and isn’t bothered by it at all. But she feels flustered, especially when he asks if she is comfortable, which is considerate, certainly, but also not something any man has ever asked her before — which probably says more about the quality of her companions than it does about men as a whole. It takes them a few tries until they settle on something that seems convenient to the first part of her fantasy. Remembering exactly what they are doing makes her stomach flip and her heart pause for half a beat. He is helping her act out a fantasy she has described for him, which is an entirely new experience for her.

 

They are lying side-by-side. She is on her back, arms rather lamely folded by her sides so that her hands are resting lightly on her stomach — not particularly useful, but not in the way of anything, either. Her legs are straight out, as if she were going to sleep. She can open them when it’s appropriate. He is on his side, head propped on one hand, other hand free to wander the length of her body, free to slide between her legs and give her exactly what she’s asked of him.

 

“Whenever you are ready,” he says.

 

“I’m ready now,” she says, voice a little weaker than she’d like. And he starts moving his hand, softly, slowly, all over her body. And even this, just his hand exploring the canvass of her skin with no particular direction, feels good to her. His hand feels good to her no matter where he puts it, and it makes her heart slow and her breathing grow soft and deep and even.

 

She tries to hold his gaze while he touches her, but somehow that becomes too much. Being touched feels good, but watching him watch her is a little more than she can handle. “Do you mind — do you mind if I close my eyes?”

 

His hand pauses. His face doesn’t give anything away, but the pause feels thoughtful. “I do not mind.” It sounds like reassurance. She closes her eyes and his hand begins to move again. Eventually, his hand moves between her legs, and his fingers are soft and gentle there, exactly as she’s asked, and she feels a kind of electric thrill blooming deep in her cunt, the kind that will take a long time to build to fruition and will feel good the whole way there. She expects this to be like slow, deliberate way she'd masturbated in her bed, but better simply because he is doing it for her. She makes a soft little sigh and rolls her hips, just a little, and he shifts beside her and slides his free hand beneath her head, which makes her sigh again, and then he drops his head so his mouth can touch her shoulder. He moves his mouth along her skin, trailing kissing towards her neck, and from pure instinct she moves the arm that is between them to curve around the back of his head, stretches her neck so he will be able to get to it better, moans in pleasure — and then, inside her chest, she feels a tender thing oncoming, its precursor like ocean water receding from a beach before a wave, and she gasps sharply, and stiffens suddenly against him. 

 

“Stop,” she whispers, her hand clutching at the base of his skull, her knees drawing up in self-protection, her eyes opening suddenly. “I’m sorry, stop.”

 

He pulls back and looks at her.

 

“I’m sorry,” she says, “but you can’t — you can’t do that to me.”

 

He looks at her a long time, gaze narrow, considering, appraising. Not happy, but thoughtful. Finally, he says: “I understand.” His accent, which is back in force again, makes it beautiful. “I will not do it again.”

 

And she doesn’t see how  _ he  _ can understand, since she doesn’t understand it herself, but his hand is making light and soothing motions against her thighs, and the look on his face is quite serious, and she knows he won’t kiss her again.

 

“Would you like to stop?” he asks.

 

“No,” she says, a little frail but quite certain of herself.

 

“Do you need a moment?”

 

She shakes her head. “No, I — yes, I do, but I want you to keep touching me.” He looks a little skeptical, in his faintly judgemental way, but attentive, too. She thinks for a minute, looking for a way of expressing herself that might appeal to him. Finally, she picks something that seems likely to work. “I do need a minute to get back to where we were, but I would like for you to help me. Will you do that?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Thank you.”

 

She closes her eyes again and frowns a little, like someone centering themselves for a difficult task, and arranges the arm that is between the two of them so her hand is on his shoulder; it’s steadying for her but it also makes a distance, and that helps her, too.

 

He dips his fingers back between her legs, and moves them even more softly than before, and a little slower, too. For a while he only stokes the fragile velvet skin of her outer labia as if he were soothing some soft, strange little hurt there instead of trying to arouse her, but eventually it works towards his real purpose, and hers, and she begins to sigh again and breathe in little gasps, and move her hips without really being aware, or in control, of what she’s doing. She twists her spine languidly; her head moves in his hand, which feels to her like a steady base against which to brace herself.

 

He gives her exactly what she’s asked for, and teases her until she’s half-mad. He slips a single finger into the silken wetness of her cunt and strokes lightly, horribly lightly, across her clit. When her breathing grows high and shallow and becomes erratic he moves his hand so his finger is still sliding inside her soft folds, which are as hot as her own desires and as wet as ripe fruit, without touching her clit at all, which makes her groan in protest exactly as she wants. He alternates between the two, until she starts to whine  _ please  _ without being fully aware of herself, and then he stops. He leaves his hand between her legs, doing nothing, until she slowly, slowly, opens her eyes, which are not quite focused. Her cunt is aching painfully and pulsing, and her breathing is still erratic, and she doesn’t know  _ what  _ he’s waiting for. He takes his hand out from between her legs and raises it towards her face, a pattern she recognizes: he is going to check that she is, in fact,  _ really _ ready to proceed, a process that for him seems to require touching her cheek. She finds doesn’t mind that so much. 

 

When he raises his hand to her face, the thick haze of her own scent clouds her senses, and she has a sudden impulse of her own. She catches his hand, and holds it. She wants to try something.

 

She likes the way she smells, why wouldn’t she like her own taste? After only the briefest hesitation she pulls his hand closer and takes his index finger in her mouth. She does like the way she tastes. She closes her eyes to save herself having to see him looking at her.

 

She sucks his index finger like a strange little parody of fallatio, making a hungry kind of seal around it with her lips and sliding her tongue along and around the length of him until she can’t taste herself on his skin any longer. Her eyes are closed the whole time but when she finally opens them he is still watching her, something very subtly amused and thoughtful playing around his features.

 

With the hand that already resting behind her head, he gathers a fistful of her hair — gentle but firm, and, Arihnda thinks, the precursor to something she will enjoy. She feels a little shiver of delight. He rubs his index finger, wet with her spit now instead of the slick juice of her cunt, against her lower lip thoughtfully.

 

Then he draws his hand away, and down her body, and slips two fingers inside her. She is so sensitive there, now, that this alone makes her moan a little. He works there for a moment as if gathering something, and then draws them out again. Then he lifts his hand, and brings it near to her mouth.

 

She looks down at at his hand, then looks at his face. She thinks his expression is mildly curious, vaguely amused, somewhat expectant. “Would you like to try again?” It’s practically a drawl.

 

She turns very bright pink, but only for a moment. He waits, and the flush recedes from her face and her breathing quickens a little. Yes, she does want to do this. Yes, she  _ does _ . She nods, and he merely raises an eyebrow.

 

Pulling a little, just a very little, against the hand grasping her hair, she opens her mouth, and, finding the distance to his fingers is just a little more than she can move her jaw and finding, after another glance at his face, that he does not intended to be any more helpful in the matter, she catches his fingers with the tip of her tongue and, with his obviously amused approval, draws them into her mouth. 

 

She thinks she tastes as good as the first time. Better, maybe, knowing that he likes watching her do this — or at least that he is interested enough to be curious. She still doesn’t want to watch him watching her, though, so she closes her eyes again. 

 

They repeat this two more times. Perhaps he is genuinely enjoying himself — he is very hard against her leg — or perhaps he is only curious to see how long she will do this without complaint, which seems, frankly, much more likely.

 

Whatever the case, Arihnda’s decided that she’d rather get on to other things. The time she’s spent doing this hasn’t cooled the feeling between her legs at all. Feeling sluttish and wanton, her own abandon has only made the twitching ache inside her worse, and there is a kind of insane, painful  _ me me me  _ from her cunt that can’t be put off any longer. Eyes still closed, she takes his hand out of her mouth, a little hurriedly, and clasps it to her chest. “Fuck me,” she whispers. It comes out high and breathy.

 

He doesn’t do anything.

 

“Fuck me with your fingers,” she says, louder. She pushes his hand down towards the junction of her legs. She pulls one knee up, lets it fall to the side, opening herself. “Make me cum.” Her voice sounds as hungry and demanding as she feels.

 

He slides his hand between her legs, and strokes two fingers against her inner labia. His fingers slide against her as easily as air, almost frictionless in the wet.

 

“No,” she says loudly, “make me cum.” It’s a fierce command, but unlike her usual experience of herself it's not an angry one, and the sound of it surprises her a little.

 

“Impatient,” he murmurs. But it sounds like a joke. He twists his hand, grips her thigh firmly, and pulls her leg up and sideways until it is hooked over his hip. Her hips are open so wide they almost hurt. He makes her wait only a moment more, and then he slips his fingers inside her.

 

It feels, truly, better than the first time. Perhaps because she knows what to expect from him. Perhaps because she has explicitly asked for it. It doesn’t matter and she doesn’t care. It just feels good.

 

But it is different than last time, too. Perhaps because of the different angle, perhaps because she is more sensitive, in a different way, after the activities of the past two days. There is a little bit of hurt, only a little, underneath her pleasure this time; she finds she likes it. It is not remotely the same as the discomfort she has felt with other men before — not at all the same as the discomfort that comes from an inattentive partner, or from insufficient arousal. In a bizarre, perverse way even the faint undercurrent of pain, of almost-too-much, feels good. 

 

Like last time, he moves his hand slow at first, then faster and faster, curling his fingers against the ridge of sensitive, textured flesh just at the entrance of her cunt, until she is twisting and whining and keening. His fist is very tight in her hair, and she is clutching his shoulder. Her other hand is thrown back above her head, twisting in the sheets. Her brow is furrowed deeply and her face is tense with concentration. His fingers are a tease, no more: enough to bring her to up to the very edge of what she wants but no matter how she concentrates, no matter how she moves her hips, no matter how she tenses her cunt around him trying, trying, trying to find the pressure that she needs, she can not get over the edge of the rise. But for the first time with a man, the frustration itself has become a kind of pleasure. She’s painfully swollen and the muscles inside her are tense, but she knows in the end he will push her just as far as she wants to go. She trusts him to deliver. She rolls her hips, rocks them frantically, moves her whole spine, and begs, begs, begs: the freedom to do this is a kind of pleasure, too. She tilts her head back and wails, partly just because she can. He varies the speed of his fingers inside her cunt and she curses at him, very loudly, and begs again. He doesn’t make any attempt to be helpful, just keeps on the same way. She kicks in frustration, twists her ankle, bucks her hips. “ _ Please.”  _

 

“Not enough?” His voice in her ear is heavily accented, rough, low, and deeply entertained. She hates him. She rolls her hips. She adores him.

 

“ _ Please,”  _ she cries again.

 

“Be specific,” he murmurs, sounding very amused.

 

It is harder and more embarrassing for her to do what he wants than it should be, with his fingers dragging in and out of her past the second knuckle and her sense of dignity flattened by carnal desperation. But it  _ is _ difficult whether or not it  _ should  _ be and it takes her several more moments of brainless, guttural complaint before she manages to gasp out the most unabashedly anatomical direction she has ever given to a man: “ _ You have to — I can't — use my clit.” _

 

He tightens grasp on her hair, which makes her gasp and tense her whole body with fresh anticipation, and then he presses his thumb against her clit, and rubs it with speed and intention. 

 

Her tense cunt spasms around his two fingers and she lets out a strange half-strangled shriek that is relieved and triumphant and emerges from the very base of her throat like victory. Her body trembles and he keeps moving his fingers inside her and moving his thumb against her clit, merciless and relentless. She’s perfectly capable of saying  _ stop _ , but instead she screws her face in concentration and digs her hand into his shoulder, digs her other hand into the sheets, and, gasping, wills herself to go further. Her body alternates between waves of trembling and stiff moments of frozen tension, the one snapping into the other and back. She can only stand it for a few moments. “Oh — less,” she cries. And he stops entirely, fingers still inside her. “No,” she gasps, again, words suddenly, surprisingly, right where she needs them, “just your thumb.” And he moves his fingers inside her again, and she rides this until she is half-recovered. Then she gathers up all her courage and all her will and gasps out: “Thumb again, please.”

 

Cumming from the friction against her clit isn't the same as cumming around his cock, as cumming only from the action of his cock; it's less intense, less deeply satisfying, but in some ways it's better. It's like athleticism; it’s more than she’s had, but not more than she can stand. She can will herself to endure more than she expected, and she enjoys it more than she anticipated, too. Inside her cunt she feels wild spasming cascades that are driven directly by his confident touch. She digs her hand into his shoulder in a white knuckle grip and stiffens suddenly like a board, then yells. It’s a terrific sound that crescendos at the very top of her range and is borne as much from a conscious desire to be loud as from the pleasure in her body. She enjoys making it, and hearing it, almost as much as cumming, maybe more. She has decided that she is proud of the sounds he draws out of her and she will make as many of them as she pleases — even in her sleep, even if Juahir or the whole world can hear. 

 

At the end of her scream the paralytic tension in her muscles snaps again, and she shudders and writhes and screams differently: a hoarse, deep thing that she makes and hears with tremendous pride. He moves his hand in her and against her with no change in pace, and it feels good, and good, and good — until it doesn’t, which happens very suddenly, like turning a sharp corner, as if her body has simply and abruptly forgotten the directions for turning the chaos of sensation into pleasure. 

 

Some still-there piece of her mind begins to gather itself to say stop, but in the end she doesn’t need to. The next noise that emerges from her is more unhappy desperation than keening enjoyment, and Thrawn stops the movement of his hand abruptly. He leaves his fingers buried inside her but he lifts his thumb off her clit and presses it to the soft mound of flesh at the apex of her public bone. She draws her leg up and curls herself around his arm, groaning. She lets go of his shoulder and loops her arm behind his back without really thinking about it. He seems willing to be patient with her while she does this. Or perhaps he is just observing her, and learning. She isn’t really paying attention to him. She feels marvelously proud of herself, and content to lie awash in the current of sensation that is still running over and through her body.

 

But as she lies there, another sensation floods in. She’s so undone she doesn’t feel the warning signs, or have the reserves to block it out. It’s the awful, tender thing that electrifies her nerves and makes her feel helpless and terrifies her. She takes a shallow, gasping breath, tries to clamp down on it, almost succeeds. She takes another, shuddering breath, and brings her free hand down from over her head and pushes his hand out from behind her legs. Then, to distract herself, to move things along, to direct his attention away from anything he might see on her face, she says, voice very fierce and rough: “I need you to fuck me now.”

 

He doesn’t make any move to comply. His fist has unclenched from her hair but his hand is still behind her head. He makes a slow arc against her scalp with his thumb, which makes her flinch. He stops. “Perhaps you should take a moment,” he says, accent heavy. He sounds a little worn himself. And there is another, more darkly serious note beneath. He is, after all, very observant.

 

Her eyes are still closed. She keeps them that way. She is frowning deeply. “I don’t want a kriffing moment,” she spits, abruptly shrill and angry, “I just want you.” Which is the unfiltered truth, no matter how she intends it. “I need you to fuck me right now. Just —” she clenches her jaw, “just turn me over and fuck me. Do what I say. Please.”

 

And this time he does comply, but slowly. He moves to put a pillow under her hips and she catches it, weakly. “No,” she says. “Hips up, like last time. Help get me there. Please.”

 

He doesn’t say anything, but he helps her arrange herself. Then there is an awful moment where he doesn’t do anything. She’s bent like an envelope, wrestling with her heart, full of the absurd, self-willed hope that feeling his cock inside her solid and firm like nothing else in her life will make her emotions more stable instead of the other way around and for a moment he doesn’t touch her at _all,_ she can’t feel him at _all,_ and it makes her afraid that something inside her might crack. “Fuck me,” she whines into the mattress. She sounds desperate and pathetic and slightly insane, but she doesn’t care. “Please fuck me.”

 

There's one more horrible moment of nothing and then he runs his hands lightly over her back and takes her by the hips, gently. He makes her wait again, her nerves balanced on a knife’s edge. He tests her with his fingers, as if to be sure her body is still responsive in the right way. It is not the first time he has seemed to understand her better than she understands herself. Whatever he finds inside her is acceptable, it seems, because the next moment he steadies her hips and then he slides inside her: deliberate, steady, overwhelming. She gasps and cries out and buries her face in the mattress — from relief, from gratitude, from the chaos of her own feelings. Her reaction comes a little bit from discomfort, too, but not a kind she exactly dislikes; she is worn and oversensitive but she is not even remotely concerned, in this moment, with feeling pleasure. She only wants to feel that he is there. He hesitates and she pushes herself quickly up onto her hands, shaking her head. “Don’t stop,” she commands, rough and desperate, “don’t stop.” 

 

He starts a little unevenly and she responds to every move with helpless, high-keyed feeling. Her body is tense, her arms rigid, her head hanging low. Her breathing is fierce and rough. She can hardly think, which is precisely the point. When she can gather herself enough to speak, she chants  _ don’t stop _ , which is as much a command to herself as to him _.  _ Her voice is ragged and torn but the intent beneath is willful and strong, as she is herself. He takes up a ferocious pace much earlier than the last time, as if he is trying to finish as quickly as possible. He is cursing softly again, like last time, but the tone is a little different. 

 

The rapid alternation of pressure-and-emptiness inside her as he moves, the friction of his cock along the sensitive, almost over-worked walls of her cunt, makes her grow tense as if she might cum again, but she only stays riding on the edge of almost. Her scrambled nerves can't find their way beyond it.

 

After an impossibly long time, judging by her body, or possibly no time at all, she has no clock to measure by, he does something she would not have guessed at, something she doesn’t know how to process and can only confusedly accept as it happens. He stops. He says something in his language which doesn't sound at all like a curse, runs his hands down her sides, then leans over her. He holds himself up with one strong arm, wraps his other arm tightly around her waist, and presses his forehead against her neck so fiercely she thinks the strange ridges of his brow will be imprinted there forever. He says something else in his language, mutters it to himself, and then starts moving inside her again, slowly at first and then inexorably faster and faster until he is moving even quicker than before. He’s at a different angle now, just a little, and every thrust is harder, and the keen edge she’s been riding is suddenly finer still; she still doesn’t cum, but she whimpers with every thrust.

 

It only takes him a few moments, like this, to finish. The sound he makes when he cums is strange and animal and almost angry, torn from someplace deep within him, and it makes her cry out, too, in sympathy and distress. All of it together, the feeling of him holding her, the feeling of his face against her, the way he feels inside her, the sound he makes, all of it in tandem sparks a fresh onslaught from the fierce, tender thing in her chest and her belly and makes her clutch at the arm he has around her waist with one hand and gives her a horrible desire to gather him into her arms. But then he thrusts again, shorter, and again, and then, groaning, pulls out of her, lets go of her, and climbs past her to lay on the bed some distance away. She half-collapses, and then lays face down, collecting herself, blinking back a bizarre prickling of tears, and listening to him catch his breath.

 

Unlike the last time, he does not touch her, or reach for her at all, which troubles her. When she puts her mind together enough to decide that she is, in fact, quite upset by this, she turns her head to the side to look at him. He is still breathing roughly, staring at the ceiling. Perhaps he is unhappy with her — which might, she thinks with a faint bolt of fear, make him want to reconsider their arrangement. She doesn’t like the prospect at all. She considers her options, then picks a likely gambit. She reaches out and puts her hand lightly on his arm. “Thank you,” she whispers. He turns his head to look at her. The expression on his face is closed, and not particularly pleased. “I mean it,” she says, doubling down on her bet: “Thank you.”

 

He keeps looking at her and finally says: “I have some suggestions for the next time.” 

 

Arihnda brightens instantly in spite of his evident displeasure; she hasn’t got the presence of mind to be even remotely embarrassed by this. “So there’s still going to be a next time?” she asks. 

 

She wriggles onto her side in spite of the aches through and inside her body, and, feeling a cold wet spot where she’d been laying, wriggles again, towards the bottom of the bed, to smush her hip into it. She isn’t sure why she’s suddenly developed an affinity for the disgusting — masturbating in her office, consuming the secretions of her own cunt, now lying in his cum and enjoying the feeling of cum leaking out of her — but she doesn’t intend to examine it, or let it bother her. It feels good, like having him fuck her. And he’s apparently willing to fuck her a third time, at some undefined point in the future, which makes her rather happy.

 

He looks at her for a long, closed moment. If he knows why she’s arranging herself on the bed exactly as she is, he doesn’t say anything about it. Instead he says: “Yes, I intend there to be a next time.” He sounds… annoyed. That’s definitely annoyance, Arihnda decides. But there  _ will  _ be a next time, which is mostly what she cares about.

 

“Good,” she says, feeling reasonably bold. She’s more or less mastered her emotions, boxed them back up and put them where they belong, and right now even the pain in her body feels good. She feels somehow accomplished, like she’s achieved something. She feels strong and rather pleased, all things considered, with the whole day. Then, because she can’t afford to be as much of a wreck at the office as she had been after the first time they’d fucked, she says: “Do you know what time it is?”

 

He only looks at her, with one of the least subtle expressions she has ever seen on his face. It says, more or less,  _ do I look I’m wearing a watch?  _

 

“I’ll get up in a minute,” she says, skipping past his irritation, feeling conversational. “I didn’t bring a change of clothes.”

 

Some of his annoyance seems to dissipate. “Will your roommate have an opinion on your absences if you do, in future, spend the entire night?” This question seems to be mostly about abstract curiosity.

 

Arihnda grimaces. “No more than she has about my coming home at the crack of dawn. She already knows… what I needed her to know. And I don’t care what she thinks of me.”

 

“A healthy attitude generally,” he allows, “but I suspect not in this case.”

 

She frowns at him. “Are you going to lecture me now?”

 

“Yes, Miss Pryce, I am.”

 

“Wouldn’t you rather tell me your suggestions for  _ next time _ ?” she asks, trying to sound coy. She’s not very good at it.

 

“No. I will tell you those  _ next time.  _ Right now I would prefer to move to a different subject.” 

 

Which tells her exactly how displeased with the end of their evening he’d been, in spite of the way he’d held her and pressed his face into her. Fine, she will deal with that  _ next time.  _ “I suppose I can’t tell you not to lecture at me?”

 

He considers this for a moment, something pensive happening behind his eyes. Then he says: “If you do not wish to listen, I will not speak. But I think you should consider, as we discussed, the benefits that sound advice might have for your later career ambitions.”

 

Arihnda’s mouth twists unpleasantly, precisely because she knows he is right, and because she has already agreed to exactly this sort of conversation, and because she hates herself for being repetitive when it serves no purpose. “Of course,” she says, forcing herself to be calm, “my apologies, Commander. Please continue.”

 

“Thank you. I am thinking about our earlier discussion of Higher Skies; I do not believe that my point was adequately taken. You have read my service record?”

 

“Obviously.”

 

“And am I right in guessing your version of this record contains some extra level of detail not generally available to the public?”

 

She snorts. “ _ Obviously.” _

 

“And did it contain any information about a pilot named Tal Gimm?”

 

“Transferred out of Royal to Skystrike after assaulting you,” she says promptly, a little bored. “I’m surprised he wasn’t expelled. I assume this is about my feeling vengeful? Well, I’m sorry Mr. Gimm didn’t get what he deserved. Juahir and Driller, on the other hand, are going to get  _ exactly  _ what —”

 

“I requested that Captain Gimm — he is a Captain, now — be transferred to Skystrike in lieu of expulsion,” he says over her. She blinks. He continues: “During his assault on me, I noticed that Captain Gimm and his compatriots possessed the natural aptitude for complex group coordination that is so vital to successful fighter pilot missions, and so difficult to train into new pilots. It is a rare and valuable asset, and I used the opportunity before me to place Captain Gimm, and his companions, in roles where their best talents could be used as fully as possible.”

 

“Juahir is going to prison,” says Arihnda, for lack of anything smarter to say. “You said so yourself. I don’t think any talents will be useful there.”

 

“Miss Madras’ evident talent for social manipulation will doubtless help her survive,” he says coldly. His tone seems directed far more at Arihnda than at Juahir. “In any case, that was not my point. I tell you about Captain Gimm so you may have a tangible example with which to contextualize —”

 

“You didn’t let your feelings get in the way,” Arihnda summarizes. This is at least the third time he has made this point to her in as many days. She exhales sharply through her nose and looks past him to a random point on the wall.

 

“Correct,” he says, voice still rather cold. “You are wasting your energies seething over things that cannot be changed — analogous to Captain Gimm’s assault on my person — rather than focusing on exploiting the current situation for the best possible outcome. In my case, leveraging my position to have Captain Gimm placed in a more suitable role; in your case —”

 

“Staying friends with Juahir to learn the most I can from her, and then accepting that she will face her own fate when I’m finished. And doing the same with Driller. And not flaming out in a fit of rage.”

 

“Precisely. It is not a matter of  _ revenge,  _ but one of —”

 

“Using all available assets to their best advantage. Which is not personal, even if it is stressful or upsetting. We have that problem in mining, too, but it’s more about how to cycle through machine parts, and assign work shifts.”

 

“Problems you will no doubt face again in your Governorship.”

 

“So you do believe I’ll get it, then?” she asks absently, before she can think about it. It comprises all the doubts and need for reassurance she rarely admits even to herself.

 

He pauses, then says, thoughtfully: “I would not have spoken to Colonel Yularen on your behalf if I did not. But on that note, I have another small observation to make. If I may?”

 

Arihnda takes a breath through her nose, expels it forcefully from her mouth. “Of course, Commander.”

 

“I would merely like to suggest to you that Colonel Yularen’s good feeling towards you might have some value beyond the merely utilitarian, if you allow it to.”

 

She raises her eyebrows. “Such as?”

 

“You may not be inclined to believe so at the moment, Miss Pryce, but I suspect friendship may be valuable in and of itself.”

 

She doesn’t want to admit to understanding this comment. She doesn’t want to deal with this comment at all. Instead, she swallows hard against a sudden flash of anger and pushes herself up off the bed, cum sticking to her thigh and hip.

 

“Thank you for the input, Commander. You’ve certainly given me something to think about. If you’ll excuse me, I should shower before I leave.”

 

He doesn’t respond to that.

 

In the fresher, with the door closed behind her, she avoids her own reflection. She breathes through the burning fury that’s suddenly alive in her chest, forcing herself to let it go, bit by bit — which she does, in fact, know how to do when it suits her. Then she moves to the shower. 

 

As she moves, just tired this time, not animated by deep annoyance or hot anger, she becomes acutely aware of the very sore feeling between her legs. And of the cum still on her, and between her thighs, and inside her. Curious, she pauses, bends a little, dips her hands between her legs, rubs her fingers in the wetness. Then she brings her fingers to her face. It’s not really different in color or texture or than what comes out of human men, who have some variation of their own anyway. She sniffs. She wouldn’t wear it as perfume, but she’s not repulsed. She licks her fingers. Overall, it’s mostly… normal. There’s maybe a hint of something a little different, something very faintly mineral perhaps, but it’s subtle. She almost likes it. She dips her fingers between her legs again, licks them again. She does like it. She has a suggestion or two of her own for next time.

 

After she’s clean, she gets her clothes from the bedroom. She’s covered with a towel when she does, and she retreats to the fresher to dress. She’s not quite ready to face him. She almost wants to leave without facing him at all — but he has a sense of pride, she knows, and there is probably a limit to his tolerance, and she has been demanding, and difficult, and short with him. If she really wants to be sure there is a next time, she should probably say something pacifying.

 

Dressed, she goes back into the bedroom. He is still on the bed; he hasn’t moved from it the entire time she’s been showering or dressing. He is either very busy in his own mind, or very bored. She stops at the foot of the bed.

  
“I’m sorry for snapping at you, Commander,” she says without preamble. “I do appreciate your time, and your advice. I appreciate them both very much.” And then she remembers something he’d said earlier. It really does give her the perfect way to end on a note other than  _ I’m sorry.  _ “Will you let me know when your technical specialist has completed our comms?”


	3. An Acceptance of Risk, Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> To live in a body is to have to accommodate it. To share a body is to have to accommodate the person you share it with. Learning to see yourself through other eyes, and to see through other eyes in turn, is a hard-earned skill.
> 
> Welcome to the first half of a very long conversation.
> 
> (If you need warnings for these things: STD scares, yeast infections, and OB/GYN visits)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 3 Pt 1 was a long and miserable struggle but hopefully sets up some things that pay off later — if I can manage it. Hopefully Chapter 3 Pt 2 is not as long of a wait.

_Pay not attention to those who would keep you far from fire: you want to prove yourself a man of courage_. — Napoleon Bonaparte

 

_To withdraw from danger, and thereby to involve their comrades in greater perils, is the height of cowardice_. — Napoleon Bonaparte

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

She leaves the hotel feeling almost good about herself.

 

The feeling deteriorates, bit by bit, as she drives back to the apartment.

 

_ Friendship can be valuable in and of itself. _ In the solitude and silence of her speeder this comment rattles in her head like like sharp pebble trapped in an engine. Loud, obnoxious, irritating.

 

_ Valuable in and of itself _ , indeed.

 

She tries to overpower the rattling little echo with anger. Anger at Thrawn, for saying it. Anger at Juahir and Driller and everyone else for doing what they’d done. Even anger at herself, for being naive and childish and stupid. Her anger has been her crutch and her talisman, her shield and her fuel, since the moment she came face to face with Ghadi, and she tries to protect herself with it now, too. 

 

And perhaps there is some version of her life where this might have worked. Perhaps there is a version of her life where her first meeting with Thrawn goes differently, and she struggles alone with nothing but her anger to buoy her. Perhaps there is version of her life where the entire mechanism of her emotional regulation becomes solely tuned to fury. 

 

The engine that produces and regulates her emotions has been running full tilt without respite for nearly eighty consecutive hours, and over those hours she has demanded that it to do much more than merely squeeze out anger.

 

She has been angry, yes. The angriest that she has ever been. But she has been hopeful, too. She has been filled with strange joy and run ragged by desire and, at times, raked savagely by awful tenderness. 

 

And the man who has woken these things in her, the only person left whose opinion she cares for, has examined her anger and pronounced it uncompelling.

 

_ Valuable in and of itself.  _ It lands, finally. It pierces the barrier around the place where she holds all the things she used to feel for Juahir. It strikes as if he had aimed it. It rips right through the shield she's built around this festering place, and lets a torrent loose.

 

The fluid that spills out is grief.

 

She had trusted Juahir. She had  _ trusted  _ Juahir. Juahir had been the sole, dependable constant of her life on Coruscant from the day they'd met. She'd tried to tell herself, over and over again, that she didn't need anyone, that she wasn't relying on anyone but herself — but that was only partly true. She was capable of providing for herself, and she had done many things for herself. Her jobs, her ambitions, most of these she had tended to.

 

For everything else, she had leaned on Juahir. 

 

For four years Juahir had been her only friend; had given her a sense of place, of community, of humanity. Arihnda would never have admitted to needing those things, but she had lived with her family until leaving Lothal and the absence of intimate and trusted companions on Coruscant had weighed on her. She had been lonely, before Juahir. She had been  _ alone _ , before Juahir. Almost since the moment they had met, she had leaned on Juahir day in and day out without even realizing it.

 

And now Juahir is gone. Everything that Arihnda had trusted and believed in and taken for granted about Juahir is gone. The loss is as complete and profound as if Juahir had died — in most ways, it is worse. A piece of Arihnda is gone, like an organ, or a limb. And every time she sees Juahir, who is still whole and complete, it is like a cruel mockery of Arihnda’s own newfound brokenness. Thrawn’s comment could not have ripped open this wound more savagely if he had designed it for the purpose. 

 

The pain of her loss floods her full-force. She tries to hold it back, of course, but some fights can't be won.

 

She fights anyway.

 

She fights as long as she can, until she can’t drive safely anymore. Then she parks as fast as she can, unaware even of where she is, and she tries to wrestle with the unacceptable thing inside her just a little longer.

 

She fights until there is no fight left in her.

 

Then she just survives. 

 

What happens is loud, and ugly, and sad. Her tears come out of her like a rising water table seeping up through the earth, wiping away the solid ground. Her eyes prickle and her hands shake. Her breathing becomes less and less normal until it is a wheezing, chaotic thing that makes her whole body shudder. It’s the kind of crying that sometimes heals when it’s shared with someone we love, but always drains when it’s endured alone. Like a fever, or a virus, there is nothing to do but let it run its course. She spends most of it stretched back against her seat with her arms around herself in a wretched parody of comfort. The noises that come out of her are broken and wrong and mean  _ help me.  _ But there is no one there to hear. She can hardly hear them herself.

 

It goes on and on until it's over.

 

When it’s done she breathes in the silence until her breathing is normal, then sniffles once decisely and wipes each cheek. Then she puts her hands back on the controls of her speeder and drives herself resolutely to the apartment where Juahir lives and where Arihnda herself still sleeps.

 

In the second bed in Juahir’s apartment, which used to be her own bed, Arihnda sleeps the dead sleep of a body that has been wrung out like a washcloth, and she has no dreams. 

 

She wakes up feeling tired. Not the kind of dead-dog tired she was after her first night with Thrawn, and not the kind of high-tension, high-wire tired she was yesterday. She just feels empty. But also, in the strange way of such things, she feels almost clean. 

 

She showers and dresses and goes to the kitchen without feeling much of anything — which is a great deal better, after the last two days, than feeling too much everything. Juahir frowns at her, a little worried, when she sees her face, but hands her a cup of caf without asking anything. Arihnda takes it without talking. She is still angry at Juahir but her anger doesn’t feel like a firestorm anymore. It is just there, like a part of her body. She leans her hip against the little counter that divides the the kitchen from the living room and sips her caf and stares at the wall.

 

After a few minutes of this, Juahir speaks. “Arihnda?”

 

“Mm?”

 

“You need to get some more sleep.”

 

For a second Arihnda doesn’t say anything. Then she makes a deliberate choice. It’s easier to make than the last time she did a similar thing. “Thank you, Juahir,” she says. It’s mostly true for its own sake, this time, which is almost strange. She leaves her caf half-finished on the counter when she leaves for the office.

 

At the office she hunches over her terminal and reads the last of what she has on Phindians, and the last of what she has on Senator Hem. And then, regardless of how wrung out she feels, there is nothing left for her to do but head to the senate building and start asking questions. Further investigation of Higher Skies and Yinchom can happen later; building a network for herself matters much more. So does keeping up appearances while she still needs her current job.

 

Her plan is the same it always is: get a cup of caf in hand, and look like she belongs until she can strike up a conversation with someone she hopes might know something. If it's a fruitful conversation, she'll pursue it. If it's not, she’ll move on to the next likely target. She’ll build a web around Senator and Lady Hem this way: one thread at a time. She just needs to find the people who can tell her what she needs to know.

 

By a twist of fate, she sees Bail Organa instead.

 

“Hey — Arihnda! How are you?” Bail’s smile is wide and warm and puts out about a thousand watts of afternoon sunlight. His speech is pure familiarity, too, which is a powerful weapon from someone as charismatic as Bail.

 

“Senator. A pleasure. How can I help you?”

 

This stops him just a little, this cool professionalism. Or at least it is meant to be cool professionalism. Mostly what comes out is exhaustion. It makes his smile flicker for a half a second. Then the smile is back in place, but there's something canny lurking in his eyes. “I was hoping to talk to you, actually,” he says. “About our friend. Why don't you come to my office? We’ll have tea.” He makes a sort of  _ come on, rookie, _ gesture and she falls into step with him. He keeps talking as they walk. “You strike me as more of a caf girl, but I’m a tea drinker myself. My wife sends a box of something new every week. This week it’s mudleaf or something like that — you’ll like it. It's dark.” Then he adds, a little slyly: “Kinda bitter.” 

 

Arihnda takes a hissing breath, barely suppressed, then lets it go.

 

Bail’s office is clean and elegant and full of warm tones; it's flooded with Coruscant’s pinkish sunlight. Bail gestures for her to sit in a comfortable-looking chair across from his desk, and then busies himself, fussing, and makes tea. Unlike other senators, who would ring for a servant, or call for one in an arrogant bellow, Bail does everything himself. It’s a kind of ballet; Arihnda can tell he's perfected it over hundreds of hours. It's blatantly a stratagem, but not one she's ever encountered before.

 

He talks while he works. It's a lively, lovely patter that rolls along as if Arihnda were playing her part —  it's warm and generous and very, very practiced. “So, I got started on our friend’s problem. Talked to a couple people. I know a  _ lot  _ of guys who are still in the Navy from the Republic days — did you know I was in the Senate during the Clone Wars? Well, the Navy was a lot more open to non-humans back then. Talked to a couple people, and they had some suggestions, started a couple balls rolling. His ship hasn't been moved to priority ranking for anything yet, but some parts shipments have been sped up. After the parts arrive it should be easier to move him up the lists — the arrival is just going to look like a logistics error, but it’ll help. It wasn't too hard, you know. Garbage like this happened in the Republic, too. You should ask me about it, someday. Knowing a little history can go a long way way, you know — especially if you want help our friend. Speaking of — how is he doing? Must be frustrating to be stuck in the docks when you're meant to be working.” He sets a tea tray down on his desk and sits in his own chair. “But I bet you know all about that, don't you, Arihnda?”

 

She meets his gaze. There's still a ghost of a smile around his lips, but only a ghost. The wry humor isn't gone from his eyes, but his expression is almost serious. Arihnda doesn't answer.

 

“I read about you,” Bail continues. “Read every record I could find all the way back to your first job here — and a few from Lothal.” Arihnda still doesn't answer. “You did a lot of good work before transferring to Bartanish Four. Not that your work at Bartanish Four  _ wasn’t  _ good, of course. I would have loved to have you working for me, you know that? You were good. You were  _ really  _ good. And that's hard work, the stuff you were doing — I have a lot of people on Coruscant, and on Alderaan, who do that kind of work. It's the bulk of what a good representative does, but it's also the most exhausting part: checking on your constituents, making sure they're doing alright, helping them get what they need. I’m really impressed with what I read about you, Arihnda. And you know, I think the people you worked for liked your work, too.”

 

Arihnda snorts. “I'm sure they did.” Arihnda’s comment is sour and unguarded and full of all her resentment for the way Renking had ultimately treated her. Bail’s patter has worked; this is a strange conversation, but a private one. They share a little secret now, because of Thrawn, and he just wants to know who he shares it with. That's fine. Arihnda can be a little honest with him. 

 

“Yeah,” Bail says slowly, “they did appreciate your work. Because you helped them.” He says this like he's trying to clarify a simple idea for a very slow child. 

 

It occurs to Arihnda that when he said the people she'd worked for, he hadn't meant Renking. 

 

Bail frowns for a second, and plucks an example from his mind. “You know that last woman — what was her name? Diaise something…?”

 

“Weebano,” Arihnda supplies without hesitation. Arihnda has an excellent memory. “Her name was Diaise Weebano. Rodian. About eight percent of Lothal’s population is Rodian. She had a nasty water leak, and that snotty little bitch Chesna Baker didn't intend to do anything she didn't have to do. Lazy and stupid as a businesswoman, Baker. I made sure she did her job. Yes, I remember that perfectly.”

 

“I see that you do,” says Bail, slow and unsmiling. “Did you know Miss Weebano wrote to the housing department after you got her apartment fixed? She mentioned you in it. She said in her letter she’d written to Renking, too. About you. Appreciatively, I’d think.”

 

Arihnda frowns.  _ She'd  _ certainly never heard of such a letter. People had often sent her little thank-yous: notes, holomessages, tiny gifts. She'd thought of them as perfunctory. She'd certainly never gotten close enough to anyone to get much more than that — anyone besides Juahir, that is. Some people thanked her in person, too, but that was the song and dance of her job — she hadn't been in it for their gratitude, and she didn't see it as terribly valuable.

 

“Lots of people did, actually,” Bail continues. Then he adds: “I imagine Renking never shared any of it with you.”

 

Arihnda doesn't answer; she doesn't have to.

 

“Yeah,” Bail says. “Always hated him. I could tell you stories — not that you need me to. But agencies that receive correspondence are obligated to keep copies. That's how I found this one. And how I found the rest.”

 

Arihnda still doesn't speak. Bail pours her a cup of tea. She lets it sit before her, untouched. 

 

“I found a lot, like I said, from your first couple years here. And ones from Bartanish Four. And ones from your time at the citizen’s assistance office.” He looks at her untouched cup. “You gonna drink that?” He waits while she takes the cup, sips politely, makes a face and tries to cover it. “Like I said, bitter. Anyway, I imagine you've never seen them. Coruscant doesn't really encourage bosses to share things like that. But I found them. Made for some very interesting reading. Very interesting. And you know, I think it would be interesting for you to read them, too.”

 

Arihnda remains silent. There's really no place inside of her designed to store the information Bail is trying to transmit. It just kind of… rattles around, looking for a place to land. 

 

Bail is, contrary to every one of Arihnda’s behaviors, smiling again. “Tell you what, Arihnda — you finish that tea. Don't say anything. I’ll send you the letters. You read ‘em, and come back and try whatever tea my wife sends me next week. We’ll catch up on our friend’s problem, then, too. Sound good?” He looks at her, intensely focused, still smiling, until she nods. “Great! How's that tea?”

 

She sips again. “I prefer caf.”

 

“Yeah, well, variety is the spice of life, young lady.” He chuckles in a way that makes her think he has said this many times to someone else — someone specific, probably. She thinks his saying it now is a joke at her expense. Her face sours a little and her holds up a mollifying hand. “Sorry, that was out of line. You just reminded me of my daughter, that's all. Anyway, I’ll have caf for you next time, if you really need it — but I'm gonna hold you to this, Arihnda. Same time next week. And I think you should at least try the tea next week, too.”

 

“Of course, Senator.” 

 

She moves to rise but Bail holds up a hand. “No,” he says, turning his hand over in a more inviting gesture. “Finish your tea first.” She sits down. “It's important to take a little time to be quiet. You strike me as someone who doesn't do that. I have some reading to do. You just sit there, and finish that tea. Sound good?”

 

It is certainly one of the stranger experiences she's ever had in a Senator’s office, but it's not dangerous. In any case, picking a fight with Bail Organa over  _ this  _ seems beyond stupid. So she takes another sip of her tea. It is bitter, but it's interesting: earthy, rich, and deep. She does prefer caf, but it's not bad. She drinks the whole cup.

 

And really, there is something incredibly pleasant about just sitting. But she doesn't sink into the feeling too far.

 

When she finishes, she intends to go back to her original mission. Her intention lasts about as long as it takes her to get into the hall, where she receives a very unpleasant call. Holo, this time.

 

“Ottlis. Hello. How can I help you, darling?”

 

“You're dragging your feet.”

 

“Am I? I thought I was doing my job appropriately. Not that you'd know.”

 

“We'd like something today.”

 

“I’ll bet you would.” And truly there is a limit to how far she can push him. To how far she can push Ghadi. But she wants to set up just one more thing before she hands anything over. “I’ll have something for you the day after tomorrow.”

 

“That's not good enough.”

 

“Ottlis, I truly do not care.” And it's strange, really, how far Ottlis has fallen down the list of her concerns, and how fast. Partly she is just too tired. She also knows she can call Thrawn and Yularen any time and have him swept up like dust. The thought gives her a great deal of comfort — and a certain degree of boldness. “You can come and kill me, but you can't force me to work any faster. I’ll see you at Yinchom.” And she hangs up.

 

And then decides to take care of a practical matter. She's needed to pee, not urgently but persistently, through most of her conversation with Bail. There's a fresher a few yards down the hall.

 

And she finds, in the fresher, she's read her own signals wrong. She does need to pee, but only a little — but she feels a little bit hot and a little bit dry, and a little bit uncomfortable. The symptoms are barely there, hardly started, but she thinks she recognizes this.

 

She's had yeast infections before — two of them. She should just swing by a pharmacy and grab a tube of nazole-and-bacta. Generic nab is reliable and only takes about a week to clear things up. She's  _ pretty _ sure it will solve her problem.

 

But she's too smart not to be a little worried. After-therefore-because might be a logical fallacy, but it’s also the heuristic from which most consequential reasoning derives. Sitting in the fresher, Arihnda does some very quick consequential reasoning. It spikes a little of the exhaustion out of her, as adrenaline usually does.

 

Her second yeast infection had also been after intercourse — it had been while she was with the only man besides Thrawn who she'd fucked more than once. Her doctor had told her this was not entirely abnormal. The man she'd liked had cum inside her two nights in a row, and then she'd started to feel an itch. This is probably the same thing, Arihnda reasons. He might be a problem for her the same way her almost-boyfriend had been. Perhaps she should have thought about it more. She'd been aware of the risk, but only in the peripheral, tertiary, unconcerned way she reserves for inconvenient things that don't accord with her desires. But probably, she thinks, this is what it is. 

 

It probably isn't anything sinister. Frustrating, certainly, but ultimately not dangerous. Thrawn certainly seems very healthy, but of course she really doesn't know. Seeming healthy sometimes means very little. And she hadn't asked. And he hadn't volunteered anything. This might have been poor thinking on both their parts, but venereal disease was virtually unheard of on civilized worlds. It was the kind of thing that happened elsewhere, in some filthy, untamed place like wild space — which was exactly where the navy had found him. And there was the matter of his species: not just his appearance, but the taste of him. For all she knows, there's something in him she's allergic to.

 

She is pretty sure this is just the early stages of a normal yeast infection. But she should really visit a doctor to be sure.

 

Which means she has to find a doctor who can be trusted with this particular problem. Imperial-trained doctors are excellent at their trade, but they're just as foul about human-alien relations as the rest of the Empire. It would be best, really, if she could find a doctor who might be able to see Thrawn, too, if he needs it — she doesn't think this is the kind of thing he'd want in the Navy’s records.

 

And then she reconsiders. It's not something he can afford to have in any doctor’s records. If it's a really a problem, it's one she’ll have to manage for both of them. She thinks she can do that. But if he has to be seen — no, she can manage that, too. If she finds a doctor whose absolute silence can be guaranteed… She can make that happen. If she has to. But she need the right doctor, first. And she needs help for that.

 

Still sitting in the fresher, she keys her comm. Audio only.

 

“Arihnda? What's up?”

 

“Juahir, do you think you could meet me —” she almost says  _ at the apartment,  _ but stops herself — “at home?” The apartment isn't too far from the senate building or from Yinchom.

 

“Are you okay?”

 

“Yes. I just need your help with something.”

 

“Arihnda —”

 

“I’ll tell you in person. Please.”

 

“Alright. I’ll be there in half an hour.”

 

Juahir is very punctual. Arihnda arrives just a few minutes before her. She's been trying to think of how to broach the topic, and she's been coming up empty. She does have a plan, but she is still worried — not about her plan, but about herself. She is very, very worried.

 

“Arihnda, what's the matter?”

 

She decides she might as well cut to the chase. “I need a gynecologist who knows xenobiology. And who won't get weird about it. I think I'm fine but I need someone to check.”

 

Juahir only takes a second. There’s a flash of surprise, buried quickly under focused determination. Neither of them had really taken Coruscant’s anti-alien sentiments to heart; it’s a Core World idea that’s hard to share when you grow up on the Outer Rim, and they share at least that much of their history and politics. But Juahir’s always teased Arihnda about how hard she tries to be a Core Worlder — and this must, indeed, be a surprise. But Juahir has always been able to set herself aside and focus on another person’s problem. “You need someone who won't take it the wrong way, that the man you're fucking is an alien. And you need to check, because he’s an alien.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Well, goddamn, Arihnda. Okay.” Juahir is silent for a minute. “Does it matter to you if your doctor is a man or a woman?”

 

Arihnda wants to be grown up and say she doesn't care, but the truth is she does care. She cares a great deal. She wants to talk to a woman — a human woman. She is, truly, although she hides it well, more than a little afraid of what might be ( _ probably isn’t _ , she tells herself,  _ probably isn’t _ ) happening to her body, and she wants to talk to someone whose body is like hers. Someone who shares the same fundamental experiences she has. Someone she doesn't have to work so hard to explain herself to.

 

Juahir must see it on her face. “Okay, right, a woman.”

 

“Yes, thank you.” Arihnda says. Then she adds: “But she can't ask me too much about him, his privacy —”

 

Juahir’s face is not approving but she says: “Got it. You don't have to explain. I know just the woman. And I think she’ll take an emergency visit.”

 

Doctor Helen Carteret does indeed agree to see Arihnda immediately, with no proof of urgency other than Juahir’s word. Arihnda takes this to mean that Doctor Carteret is also affiliated with the Rebels. She is sort of counting on it, really.

 

Doctor Carteret’s office is very small, but very neat, as is Doctor Carteret herself. She's aging but still honey-haired, pleasant but professional: efficient, straightforward, and quick. She's also very direct, which makes Arihnda’s part in things much easier. 

 

Because Arihnda has come in without notice and is more or less reeking of fear no matter how brave her facade, Doctor Carteret elects to take a thoroughgoing approach and build a comprehensive context for the exam she will eventually do. She asks detailed and precise questions about Arihnda’s sexual history, about the circumstances of her other yeast infections, and about her experiences with Thrawn — who Arihnda describes as obliquely as she can, which is surprisingly easy because, she finds, she knows surprisingly little about him. Even his species is more or less a meaningless word; it won't help Doctor Carteret and will only endanger Thrawn, so Arihnda says she doesn't know what he is and she sticks to it. It's more or less the truth. There's not much else she can share. Less his name, rank, and service history, she knows body and almost nothing else. And even his body is still mostly a mystery. She says he works on starships and she names the star systems she knows he's been to. Everything else she tucks safely away in her chest, far out of sight.

 

Doctor Carteret is calm and neutral about all of it, including the parts of Arihnda’s sexual history that Arihnda herself finds painful or embarrassing, which covers, frankly, most of it. Doctor Carteret asks a lot of questions: how many partners, how frequently, what kinds of protection, what kinds of activity, what kind of reaction to this, what kind of reaction to that, nothing?, ever?, is she sure?, has she been tested for this?, has she been tested for that?, ever any allergies?, every any mild responses that were allergy  _ like _ ? _ ,  _ any UTIs?, what other infections?, what planet was she from again?, until Arihnda has just about written a dossier. 

 

If her sexual history sounds a little like a history of malnutrition, like a body that is driven to consume whatever it can find the way patients with pica eat dirt, Doctor Carteret does not comment on it. She offers no pity, but she has no judgment either, not even about the fact that Arihnda knows almost nothing about her current partner. She is gently neutral about everything, which is the kind of compassion Arihnda can stand to accept.

 

The most pertinent part of her history is, of course, the one other man who had cum inside her. Arihnda had been very fond of him indeed. She'd been extremely frustrated with her body’s reaction to him. She'd thought perhaps they could work through it — she'd tried to tell him that she wanted to take a little break, and it might happen again, and would he consider a barrier? There are lots of kinds, they can pick whatever works for him. It wasn't Arihnda’s first choice, either, but — And he'd dumped her right then. 

 

That’s the most pertinent part of her history, medically, Arihnda thinks, but Doctor Carteret focuses on something else.

 

“So the relationship you’re in now is working for you?” she says. It’s not  _ really  _ a question, but it gives Arihnda space to answer, if she wants. Arihnda makes half a sound that passes for an answer. “Okay. That’s important, Arihnda,” Doctor Carteret says. She says it with perfect seriousness. “That’s very, very important. My job is to make sure you can have that without worrying, okay?”

 

Arihnda takes a breath. “Alright,” she says.

 

Then Doctor Carteret says: “You’re right that it could be the sex and still just be candidiasis. It happens more with interspecies couples than human ones; the chemical imbalances tend to be more extreme. We’ll figure it out. Let's take a look, okay?”

 

They do; it all feels very cooperative. The quick diagnostic kits don’t show anything alarming, so Doctor Carteret tentatively decides to call it a real, bona-fide yeast infection. She gives Arihnda a package of the prescription-strength, two-day nab she keeps stocked in her office, along with a little lecture on the best-case scenario: it’s just a little roadbump, her body adapts, and she never has a problem again. She says not have sex again until the nab has done its work.

 

Then, because best case scenarios almost never come true, she gets to the rest of it:  “If this doesn’t clear up, we’ll do some more intensive testing. But even if it does clear, since you don’t know what he is I’d like you have a regular appointment, starting the day after next, so we can monitor for anything that changes. Weekly, at first, and if things look good we’ll drop it to monthly. If anything else goes wrong, I’ll need you to at least bring me some samples, even if you can’t bring him with you. Okay?”

 

“Yes, I can do that.” Arihnda looks at the tube in her hand. It's labeled in black and white, with a long chemical name that is much harder to say than nab, or even than Nazole-and-Bacta. The directions are clear, though. Use every twelve hours for two consecutive days. “Thank you.”

 

It’s about five PM when she gets out of Doctor Carteret’s office. She feels worse than she did at the Senate building by a noticeable proportion, but she decides to wait a while before using the nab regardless; she’s meticulous about medical directions and she doesn't want to get up at five AM just to reapply the stuff.

 

She's lost the whole day for work, but she has another errand that needs doing, one for which she needs a little help.

 

And, she thinks with a grimace, she owes Thrawn some information about her current state. But given the hope she has for being better in a mere two days, she doesn't really want to share all of it. She’ll cross that bridge, if she has to, when it's on fire beneath her feet.

 

She messages him about needing both Yularen’s help and his own attention, and they agree to meet at seven. She still has the hotel room; she'd debated with herself over the relative merits of varying their meeting places, and decided that even if someone watching their group puts one and one and one and one together to make four, it would work out in their favor. Knowing that she and Thrawn were clearly engaged in intelligence work for the ISB might make them safer, as long as the work itself remained obscure.

 

She goes directly there herself, and naps for twenty minutes. At six, she goes to the fresher and uses the first dose of nab. It helps instantly, but it's thick, unctuous, and an ugly, slimy-looking greyish green. It’s utterly depressing.

 

She lays down again, and tries not to think about how to tell Thrawn that  _ probably  _ this isn't going to be a problem, but it  _ might  _ be and if it is they’ll have to do something different — she really hopes it isn't a problem. She really does  _ not  _ want to use a barrier, any more than she’d wanted to the last time. She likes the feel of his skin against her skin, especially inside her.

 

She definitely doesn’t think about the possibility that she might have a disease, or an allergy.

 

She gets herself back out of bed at ten of seven, and primps as much as she has the energy to, which isn't much. Then she sits at the table, and waits.

 

The door of the suite opens at precisely seven. Colonel Yularen is alone. Her heart jolts, which surprises her, but she stomps down on it.

 

“Colonel,” she says, rising and extending her hand, “thank you. I was hoping you could help me with —”

 

“Let's wait for Thrawn, save us having to repeat ourselves.”

 

“Oh,” she says, heart giving a different sort of jolt, “of course.” She sits back down, careful not to sit too heavily.

 

Yularen sits beside her. She doesn't think he's trying to make her feel crowded or uncomfortable. His manners are generally grandfatherly. “You know, he thinks quite highly of you. Commander Thrawn, that is.”

 

“Does he?”

 

“Yes. I admit I had my doubts when he came and told me he had a civilian who needed help  _ running  _ an operation — I’m sure you can imagine.”

 

“I — yes,” says Arihnda.

 

“Well, he told me — it was very him, you know — told me ‘I understand your trepidation, Colonel, but I believe there is no need for such worries with Miss Pryce.’” And Arihnda can almost hear it in Thrawn’s voice. “And I think he was right. That presentation was very well done. Not a lot of people could do what you've done so far, you know.”

 

It seems to be ramping up to something, so Arihnda keeps her mouth shut.

 

“He walked me through it, I'm sure you know. I asked you tell it from the top, but —”

 

“Yes,” says Arihnda.

 

“Right. He was very impressed not just with your handling of Ghadi in the moment — which shows rare skill, by the way — but with the way you handled everything after, too. He says you haven't decided what you're going to do for a job, when this is over.”

 

It's not phrased as a question, but Arihnda knows that it is one. And she knows that Thrawn knew damn well it wasn't the truth when he said it Yularen, which means he's either trying help her keep her options open —considerate of him, if a bit patronizing — or he's planning to trap her in a role he thinks she's suited to. Arihnda will deal with Thrawn later. “I haven't, no,” she says.

 

Yularen only looks at her for a moment. “If you're still undecided at the end of this, let me know. I might be able to find something for you.”

 

“Thank you, Colonel. I’ll keep that in mind.”

 

And it's then that Thrawn arrives, which saves her having to try and carry a real conversation with Yularen.

 

“I apologize for my lateness,” he greets them. 

 

And God, his voice is gorgeous. Arihnda is exhausted, as she has been all day: wrung out, worn out, worn down. She's still upset with Thrawn, from his little comment about friendship. More than upset, really. And she's not feeling quite herself, between her legs — or rather, not feeling good about  _ what’s _ between her legs. For all these reasons, she responds to him less powerfully than she did the day before. But she still responds. Then she gathers herself and drags her gaze, and her attention, to Yularen. Thrawn, she sees peripherally, is still standing in the entryway, where he'd stood when she'd told him how she wanted him to fuck her. He doesn't seem interested in joining them at the table. She concentrates on Yularen.

 

“Colonel. Now that we're all here shall I begin?”

 

“Please.”

 

And she explains her predicament, how Ghadi can't be put off longer without becoming dangerous or useless, how she needs to give him something soon to keep things chugging along. And then she gets to what she needs: “I was hoping, Colonel, that you could have your slicers whip up a little thief program for me. I've already got a bundle of nonsense to feed him — it will look like heavily encrypted data, but it's just garbage. He’ll spend months trying to unravel it, after I tell him what it allegedly is.” She smiles at this. “It looks very good, too. But I'm not good enough to make the kind of thief program I need — it needs to be truly undetectable. More than that, I want the ISB to trust the results. I want it iron-clad for you that whatever we find really did come from Moff Ghadi’s own data banks. I thought that would be easier if you cooked up something in your own test kitchen, instead of me asking you to trust one of my home brews. Does that make sense?”

 

“Perfect sense,” says Yularen. “I assume you have a timeline on this?”

 

“I told Ottlis Dos I would have something for him the day after tomorrow. I don’t think I can put him off much longer than that.”

 

“Are you in any particular danger?” This question comes from Thrawn. His deep voice has an inquisitive note that might be concern.

 

“I told him he could kill me but he couldn't make me work faster,” Arihnda says, looking at Thrawn and learning forward in her chair in spite of herself. “Then I hung up on him. So we’ll see.”

 

Thrawn only raises an eyebrow, barely. Yularen, on the other hand, raises both eyebrows quite high. “You aren’t afraid of much, are you?” he murmurs. 

 

“What for?” she says. “I’m certainly not afraid of things that ought to be afraid of me.” This comes out as a bit of a snarl — but it's got a self-indulgent lightness to it, too. “Besides,” she adds blithely, with real humor, “if he does get fiesty, the worst you’ll be in for is a short rescue mission, but I doubt it will come to that. I imagine I’ll be able to blow right past anything he puts in my way.” Then she adds, generously: “With your help, of course.”

 

“Funny,” says Yularen dry and unamused, brows lowering, knitting a little. “You almost sound like someone I served with, in the Clone Wars.”

 

“Do I?” This is the second time today someone’s told her about the Clone Wars.

 

“Yes. He was a brilliant General, but reckless.”

 

“Oh? What’s he doing now?”

 

“He’s dead.” Yularen says it very bluntly, in the way that only old soldiers can. He lets it linger. Then he says: “You're doing very well at all this so far, but you might want to work a little harder on your sense of self-preservation.”

 

“I believe Miss Pryce showed admirable instincts for self-preservation during her confrontation with Moff Ghadi,” Thrawn offers smoothly but pointedly from the doorway. “Perhaps her choice of joke is only a vote of confidence in us, Colonel.”

 

“Yes,” says Arihnda, a little defensive officiousness lacing her voice. “I know how to manage Ottlis.”

 

“By provoking him and then hanging up on him?” asks Yularen.

 

“There didn't seem to be much point in continuing the conversation after that,” she snaps. Then she forces a breath through her nose. “I am not in danger. Yet. That will change if I am not able to provide him with something during our regular training session at Yinchom, at six p.m. the day after tomorrow. Will you be able to wrap this in a thief program before then, or not?”

 

“That won't be a problem,” says Yularen. “As long as you're ready to use it.”

 

“I'm ready now,” she says, crooning like a carnivore.

 

“I am sure you are,” Thrawn supplies, interrupting whatever Yularen might be about to say. “Shall we get started on this for Miss Pryce, Colonel?”

 

Yularen takes a little longer to answer than Arihnda would like. But he says: “I think we should, Commander. Miss Pryce, tomorrow. Same time.”

 

“Of course. Thank you for your assistance, Colonel.”

 

Yularen doesn't respond to that. He only gives her a strange, considering look as he rises. She gives him a look of her own, as good as she gets. She will definitely ask him more about the Clone Wars, at some point, but he can take his job and stuff it. 

 

Thrawn circles back sometimes after leaving with Yularen, just like last time. He takes less than an hour, and Arihnda spends the entire time thinking about what she wants to tell him. 

 

He turns his back to her when he enters the suite, and closes the door without speaking. He stays like that for a moment, just long enough for a tongue of fear to flicker up through her chest and into her throat. He had really not been happy with her, last night, which doesn’t help her now at all. And he is probably not happy with the way she's spoken to Yularen, either. Like fear’s sloe-eyed sister, anger creeps in too. It’s a good distraction from her other feelings. Damn him, let him be displeased. It was none of his business to present her to Yularen like a slab of meat, or to tell her how to feel, or —

 

Thrawn turns to her, face not quite neutral, but not angry, either. He looks, perhaps, thoughtful, as if he were puzzling his way through something challenging.

 

“I believe I have repaired some of the damage you have just caused,” he says at last. “It did not seem very  _ political  _ of you _.  _ Perhaps you will explain your reasoning?”

 

Arihnda bites the inside of her cheek for a moment, then says: “I dislike being talked down to.”

 

“Miss Pryce, perhaps you are unaware of this, but Colonel Yularen is trying to help you. As am I.”

 

“By slotting me into a job I don't want?” She snaps as she always does: like an animal backed into a corner. But she’s also latching onto something other than the conversation she doesn’t want to have.

 

After a moment, very deliberately, he says: “You are not obligated to accept a position in the ISB, or even to request one. I assume Yularen offered one?”

 

“He offered the chance. Because of you. I didn't ask you to play recruiter, you know.”

 

“I was not playing at anything, nor was I attempting to assign you to a role. I wanted Colonel Yularen to be persuaded of your abilities, as I was. I did not think your gubernatorial ambitions were his business.” 

 

She eyes him for a few long, suspicious moments. Keeping her ambitions hidden from Yularen is absolutely in her interests — she hadn’t even considered the possibility that he might be protecting her privacy. But this is the second time he’s described such a scenario to her — first Jakeeb, now this. It feels almost as if he is looking after her — which could be so easy to go along with, really.

 

But Arihnda wants to make her own decisions.

 

“As thoughtful as that is, Commander,” she says, trying to sound even, “I’d still appreciate it if you didn’t offer me up like roast shank.”

 

Thrawn’s eyes narrow, just a little, and he regards her silently for a moment. The he says: “Perhaps Colonel Yularen was right to comment on your lack of facility with self-preservation.”

 

“Was he? How can I ever live with myself.”

 

“It is interesting that you do not seem to want to.”

 

She can feel the surprise on her own face.

 

“I do not mean that you are suicidal,” he continues, “but you do not seem remotely interested in managing yourself. Some volatility is to be expected under the circumstances, but you should make more of an effort to control it.”

 

Then he crosses the room and sits exactly where Yularen sat: beside her.

 

“Your decisions are your own,” he continues, “but I have agreed to offer you my advice, so I am telling you the truth as I see it. You will let me know if there is any point to in discussing this matter further.”

 

It’s so strange, she thinks, that she can tell, with his eerie, pupilless eyes, when he is looking at her. And where he is looking at her. It is probably from the small changes in his eyelids and the muscles around them, but it seems at times that she can quite literally feel his gaze. He is looking at her face. At her eyes. She can feel it. 

 

“Fine,” she says after a few minutes. It's almost infuriating how patiently he can wait through silence. “I shouldn't have been so short with him. You’re right about that. Please convey my apologies to him. And I appreciate you keeping my interests in mind.”

 

“Do you?”

 

“Yes,” she says, drawing the word out uneasily. “Yes. I’m sorry. I do appreciate it.”

 

His gaze moves from her face, then. He looks her over, crown to toe; she can feel this, too. “You said you needed to discuss something personal.”

 

She takes a breath. “Yes,” she says. She isn’t really ready to move on to the rest of it.

 

He lets the silence hang until he begins to find it annoying. She thinks he’s annoyed anyway. “I assume it is related to sex.”

 

“Yes,” she says. 

 

She can feel his gaze travel over her again, slowly. She should  _ say  _ something. She  _ should  _ tell him everything — which, now that he’s close enough she can touch him, she almost wants to do. She wants to tell him more than the facts: how afraid she is, how embarrassed, how sorry, as if this were something she were doing to him, which is a stupid way to feel but seems to be creeping around in the back of her mind anyway. Instead she waits for him to speak, as if hoping he will offer her an easy way out, although she can’t imagine what that the way might be.

 

“You recall I wished to offer some suggestions, for when we resume.”

 

And maybe she should use this as the chance to say they won't be resuming anything else for a couple days anyway. Instead she says: “Yes.”

 

“Interestingly, it does not constitute a change in topic.”

 

“It doesn't?”

 

“No.” He considers her again, for a minute, and then, voice even but firm, he says: “Miss Pryce, I do not particularly enjoy sex when it is an act of self-annihilation, and I do not wish to be asked to participate in it again.”

 

Arihnda’s face is caught in a kind of miserable rictus of three or four emotions at once — surprise, offense, confusion, embarrassment, and for a minute she stays stuck. She hadn’t asked him to do anything that would  _ hurt  _ her, in her own estimation. Her irritation sucks up all of her attention, instantly. She hadn’t asked him to hit her, or strike her, or do anything painful to her. She’d only asked him to fuck her a little harder and a little faster than he seemed to want to; it hadn’t hurt  _ her.  _ She’d gotten exactly what she wanted from him, and it hadn’t hurt at all. Not any way she didn’t want. “I’m not trying to annihilate myself,” she says defensively, latching onto the first response that sounds almost strong. 

 

“No?”

 

“ _ No, _ ” she seethes at him. “No. Just because I like —”

 

“I am not persuaded that you know what you like,” he says coldly.

 

Arihnda swallows hard. All she really hears is  _ I will stop fucking you. _

 

“I thought you rather liked the start of things,” she says, sounding petulant and infantile. “And letting me choose was your idea.”

 

“It was. I did enjoy the start of things. I would like for you to be able to choose. Acquiescing to your last request, however, was an error — one which I will not repeat.”

 

“You know,” she says in a low and angry voice, “a lot of people engage in ‘self-annihilation’ for fun and they get on just fine. It’s not  _ bizarre. _ ”

 

There is a long, dangerous moment of silence. Arihnda can see the anger in the very harsh, very still lines of his face. It may be more than just the immediate topic that he’s angry about. When he speaks, his voice is freezing, and sharp as steel. Every syllable is draped softly with quiet rage. “I do not care what is or is not common for other people. If you wish to be harmed during sex, Miss Pryce, you must find a different partner. I do not cause harm  _ for fun.  _ It is not  _ an amusement.  _ It is not an  _ entertainment.  _ It is a grave and serious matter, often necessary but  _ never pleasant,  _ and I do not desire to do it, or to be asked to do it, as part of sex.”

 

She knows, intellectually, that most people might be afraid of him, in this moment. Regardless of the content of his commentary, the icy fury radiating off him like an arctic draft would frighten almost anyone. But it doesn't frighten Arihnda. She is only angry right back at him, in equal measure. How  _ dare  _ he talk down to her, like — “What about my desires?” she hisses at him. 

 

“Yes,” he says coldly. “Your desires. I believe we will set some limits on those.” 

 

“Oh, we will, will we?” she snarls, all teeth and an ugly curl of lips. 

 

“We will.” His voice is still cold, and still implacable. But there’s something else in it that works its way into her awareness, just in time:  _ we,  _ and  _ will.  _ The notion of the two of them, in the future tense.

 

She takes a deep, forceful breath. She holds it a second. She expels it steadily from between her lips. “Alright,” she says, sharp and cold. “Alright.” She takes another breath, similarly. “Alright,” she says again, a little less sharp and a little less cold. “We can have this argument again next time.”

 

He raises an eyebrow. “I dislike repetitious debate.”

 

“So do I, but this one isn’t over. We’ll have it again when it’s relevant.”

 

“Is it not relevant tonight?”

 

“No.” She might as well start. “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.”

 

He blinks. It might be related to her comments. It might just be timing. There might be something different in the corners of his mouth. He was already sitting rather formally in the chair; now his posture might be more tense, still. She’s not sure. He narrows his eyes. It is definitely her comment. “What is wrong?”

 

And she can’t fault him for getting to the point. It’s not exactly subtle, if you ask someone to have an entire conversation about why you  _ can’t  _ have sex — which probably, she didn’t quite need to do. Or at least she could have done it less dramatically. Or —  _ it’s mild, it’s nothing, unless it’s not what I think, because I don’t know what you are, and I want you tell me I’ve got no reason to worry, and _ — no. Even Doctor Carteret is mostly sure. It’s just the yeast infection those aren’t bad. She barely even  _ has  _ one and even if it comes back, which it probably won’t, it's just something to be accommodated. She can get this over with easily, and then she’ll never have to think about it again. “I have thrush.” 

 

Thrawn only frowns a little. “Thrush?”

 

Of course he doesn't know the word. “It's —” she girds herself and goes for the blunt: “It's a yeast infection.”

 

Thrawn is still frowning. “I do not know what that is.”

 

Which just exactly what Arihnda doesn’t need, to be trapped in this conversation. She takes a steadying breath.

 

“It’s…” She tries to gauge what kind of explanation he wants, what kind he needs. He’s very analytical. Maybe the more precise and medical description is the safest for them both. But she doesn’t want to give a lecture on gynecology, either. “It’s not serious,” she says, “just… It’s… Do you know what yeast is?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Oh. Alright. Well, it’s just…” She tries to find something concise and not overly clinical. “It’s just overproduction. In... my body. It’s not really an  _ infection,  _ exactly, just… It’s more like an overreaction.”

 

He seems to have pulled together the pieces she’s left unsaid — like what parts of her are, specifically, affected. “This is a reaction to me,” he says. 

 

She can’t read his tone at all. But it’s something other than  _ relaxed,  _ something other than  _ unconcerned _ . She wants to set him at ease about this as quickly as she can, so they can both move on. She doesn't even think about how to tell him it might not really be a yeast infection. She thinks she isn’t going to tell him that at all. “No — yes, but not — it shouldn’t be permanent. It’s like an adjustment phase.” She’s trying very hard to make it sound regular, and casual. And in a sense, it should be. It’s not abnormal. If it’s what she thinks, what she hopes, it’s not a sign of anything being wrong with either of them. She folds her hands in her lap and meets his gaze as casually as she can. “I’ll be over it in two days or so and then we can discuss all the adjustments and suggestions you like.”

 

There is an awful moment where his gaze travels all over her again, and then he says: “This is common?”

 

She swallows. “It’s not — it’s not  _ uncommon,  _ exactly. I mean it’s not abnormal — there’s nothing  _ wrong.  _ This has happened to me before.” She says it a little defiantly. “And it’s not like I have a disease.”

 

“I did not mean that.” He lets the silence stretch a moment, then says: “You are in pain? Discomfort?”

 

“No,” she says. “I’m fine. It’s  _ really  _ not serious; I just have to take a little medication and then —”

 

“You have said several times that it is not serious,” he says over her. He sounds sharp and impatient, which unnerves her. He often sounds sharp, and cold, but never impatient. It is a measure of his frustration, which might be edging back into anger. “Curious, for something to which you choose to devote an entire conversation,” he continues, just as sharply, “and about which you have such difficulty speaking. I would like for you to show me the medication, if you have it.”

 

She sits stock still in her chair and just breathes.

 

After a moment, he makes a visible effort to soften his mien, and says: “I only wish to understand.” Then, glancing over her again, he adds: “This is, after all, something I have done to you.”

 

“You haven’t done anything,” she says, entirely too quickly.

 

“All the same.”

 

So after the briefest heistation, cheeks burning, motions wooden, she rises from her chair, goes to the fresher, and brings back the tube of nab.

 

He examines it, reads every word on it carefully, then sets it on the table between them. He will have read the small section that says that intercourse is fine six hours after application. She sits very straight in her chair, and tries to keep her hands still in her lap.

 

“This is a common problem? A real answer, this time.”

 

“I — this kind, or in general?”

 

“Both, please.”

 

“Generally, yes. It’s common. You can get nab in any pharmacy. From intercourse — not as common. But it’s really not so strange. It’s really not.”

 

“Again, a point on which you harp. You called it an adjustment period. Explain.”

 

Which she is not really ready to do. A little helpless, she dives for the truth. “It’s because I asked you to cum inside me.”

 

“It is because I  _ did  _ ejaculate inside you,” he says, an unthinking correction. “In essence, you are having an allergic reaction to my semen?”

 

“I’d rather not describe it like that.”

 

“No? Why not?”

 

“I just… would rather not.”

 

“I see.” His gaze wanders over her again, then comes back to her face. “And you believe it will not happen again?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“But it is possible that it will.”

 

She swallows. “Yes.”

 

“And it is only my semen, and no other part of me, to which you are allergic?”

 

“It’s not —”

 

“My question, please.” It is said quite evenly, with an heroic expenditure of patience.

 

“Yes.”

 

He considers this for a very short moment, then states: “We will use a barrier.”

 

She stares. After a moment, she says: “Oh.” She says it a little softly. Under this sound is all the inarticulate surprise that it could be so simple. The she says: “We shouldn’t need —”

 

“If we do, it will not be a problem. I would have suggested it, if I had anticipated this. I did not know.” There is something… She can't place it, exactly. Something in his tone that suggests he feels he  _ should _ have known. He is still considering her, still thinking. Still looking for some piece of information. “You said this has happened to you before.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Did it not recur then?”

 

Arihnda swallows hard. She has to force the words out. “I didn't get a chance to try,” she admits.

 

He considers this. Then, for the first moment since sitting down, he relaxes in his chair. “Ah,” he says. “So that is why you are anxious and ashamed.”

 

“I’m not — I’m not either of those things.”

 

He looks at her evenly for a moment, then asks: “How would you describe your state?”

 

“I’m just a little nervous,” she says.

 

“Much more than is warranted, I think,” he says, sounding almost relaxed. “And, I think, you are very much embarrassed — and afraid.” He looks her over again and she can tell, from the tilt of his chin, from the lowering of his lids, exactly where his wandering gaze has landed. “May I look?”

 

She blanches. “I don’t think that’s necessary,” she supplies as fast as she can.

 

“It is not a matter of necessity, per se, as much as a... desire to understand. I wish to see what I have done to you.”

 

“You didn't —”

 

“Let us set aside the question of whether or not it was intentional, which I suspect is the point on which you are stuck. If it helps, I will point out that I have already examined you in some detail.”

 

She turns very pale, first. “Yes, but —” Then she turns very red. “That's the — that's how I'd — that's how I want you to see me.”

 

And to this he doesn’t say anything, for a moment. The he says, evenly: “I have seen bodies in many states of disrepair. This will not change what I think of you.”

 

Arihnda swallows, shifts in her chair, fights a sudden, weird impulse to reach out and touch him. After a moment she says: “How do you want me?” She sounds almost calm.

 

“However is comfortable for you,” he says.

 

“I think — on the bed.”

 

And this is even more awkward, for her, than the last time. They end up on top of the covers, Arihnda stripped form the waist down, Thrawn still fully dressed. Arihnda is lying down near top of the bed, legs bent and open. Thrawn lounges across the width of the bed. He is arranged so his shoulders are framed by her ankles, and he is half-propped on one arm. It had taken more than little gentle coaching for him to arrange them both like this. Once he’s gotten her where he wants, she tilts her head back and looks at the ceiling. He has his free hand on her cunt, parting her still-hairless outer labia with two fingers. She has the passing thought that the timing of this would have been better if it had happened just a few days later, closer to when she’ll want to go to a esthetician to again. Between her legs, his fingers do not move at all. And strangely, it feels very pleasant, even under these conditions, to be close to him. To be touched. 

 

At least, it feels pleasant to her body. 

 

Her mind is another matter. She lets it go on as long as she can — it's probably a very short amount of time, but it feels interminable. “Alright, just — honestly, what  _ are  _ you doing down there?” She props herself up on her elbows and looks down at him. He is still concentrating on everything between her legs, and does not look up.

 

“I am looking,” he says. His fingers move a little, barely. He keeps on looking while he says it. “I had thought that was obvious.”

 

“I… yes, but… haven't you seen everything?”

 

“I am  _ examining,  _ then.” He moves his fingers now, just a little. “Learning.”

 

“Learning what?”

 

He glances up at her, seems to consider how much to share. He looks back down between her legs, moves his fingers just slightly again. “You are a little inflamed, but other than that I am having trouble seeing the difference. The medication is clearly here, but otherwise —”

 

“It’s a very mild case,” she says sharply, ignoring the implication that he paid quite a lot of close attention the last time he had an opportunity, “and I caught it early.”

 

A slight change in his eyes: a narrowing, then relaxing. Seeing the argument, letting it go. “What happens if you do not ‘catch it early’?”

 

“It… it’s just very uncomfortable. The first one was… it was actually very painful, before I went to a doctor. I guess I kept hoping it would just go away. But they're easy to recognize — that won't ever happen again.”

 

“No? Good.” 

 

After a moment of silence that is equally comfortable and strange, he returns his gaze to her cunt. 

 

“I do not see why this condition precludes intercourse,” he says, spreading the skin around her entrance a little wider.

 

“It — it doesn’t,” she admits. “I just… it just... “

 

“The directions on your medication were also quite clear on that point,” he says. And he moves his hand: takes his fingers off her, and then puts his whole hand casually flat against her, covering her completely. It’s a strange gesture, as if he were holding her; his hand is warm and gives her a strange sense not so much of privacy as of safety. “Is it merely that you are uncomfortable, or is there another part of this you should explain to me?” he asks.

 

And probably he has known there is, or at least intuited it, from the moment she’d broached the topic. Possibly he’s arranged her like this just to make her vulnerable, just to make her give an answer.

 

That should annoy her, frustrate her, humiliate her, make her angry — it does none of those things.

 

She almost reaches for his hand, but in the end she doesn’t move at all. “You’re from wild space,” she whispers. It’s more genteel than  _ I don’t know what you are. _

 

He processes this. It only takes a moment. “Your doctor is uncertain of the diagnoses, because my origins and species are unknown to her. Despite your access to my service record, they are effectively unknown to you as well. This treatment is an experiment, but the problem may be something else.”

 

“Yes.”

 

Something happens around his mouth, around his eyes. It is very small. His thumb moves, barely, against her skin. “That is why you are afraid,” he says.

 

Arihnda swallows, hard. “Yes,” she whispers.

 

Again, a moment of thought. He lifts his hand, just slightly, to look at her, then covers her again, and looks back at her face. “I do not carry any diseases of which I am aware, or I would have told you. But it is possible I carry something that is benign to me and my people generally, but not to you.” He doesn’t add  _ or to your people.  _ He leaves it there:  _ not to you.  _ Just  _ you.  _ It gives her a kind of inarticulate intuition about his past partners. “At any rate,” he continues, “I assume your doctor is also concerned that it might be, indeed, an allergy of some kind — hence your strong resistance to the phrasing. In any case, if this problem persists or recurs, your doctor will likely need to examine me, as well. I will accompany you to your next appointment.”

 

“No,” says Arihnda after a moment of blank shock.

 

“This is a serious matter,” he says, “one for which I am responsible.”

 

“You’re not — no.” And she does reach for his hand, then, and lays her own on top of it. “You can’t be seen.”

 

“I will attend to the matter of my own discretion,” he says.

 

“No,” she says again, firmly. “I know her through Juahir, which means she’s likely linked to the rest of it. If she figures out who you are, ever, before or after, she can report you to COMPNOR, or the Navy. No. You won’t come with me unless it’s absolutely necessary, and then not until I decide how to make it safe.”

 

“She could report you to COMPNOR, as well,” Thrawn says. “If your plans work as intended, she will know something about you which gives her a great deal of leverage.”

 

Which is true. “I’m working on that,” she says, which is also true. If Doctor Carteret is indeed connected to the Rebels it makes her liberal enough to treat Arihnda, but also vulnerable enough to be kept silent. But there's still a risk. “I didn’t really have a choice,” she adds, which is also true.

 

“If there is a larger issue, I will not have much choice either.”

 

Her fingers curl involuntarily against the back of his hand, her legs tense, her face flushes: shame, guilt, frustration. “I —”

 

“I meant —” he begins —

 

“I knew there risks when I asked Juahir,” says Arihnda, cutting him off, “and I think I can make it safe, honestly I think I can, I really do, but you need to give me more time.”

 

He considers this for a moment. “Yes,” he says. “On the subject of risk — Miss Pryce,  _ you  _ could report me to COMPNOR. Or to the Navy. Or to your friends in the Senate.”

 

She blinks at him. “No, I wouldn’t –”

 

“Yes. That is what I gambled on. But proposing this partnership to you was a risk.” Which was true, but hurts a little to hear. “Seeing your doctor is a risk. Some risks are mine to take. Let this double as a lesson for your later career: you cannot always control the degree to which those around you will face danger. If they choose to do so, you must often accept it. You must accept their judgement of how much risk they are willing to endure — as you must accept my judgment now. I will play my part. In this matter, you do not have a choice. I will accompany you to your next appointment. You will let me decide the best ways to protect myself.”

 

“It’s dangerous.”

 

“Perhaps. I fulfill my duty, whatever it may be.”

 

She stretches her fingers out again, flattening her hand over his. “You don’t need to take care of me, you know.”

 

“No?” He quirks an eyebrow. Somehow this isn’t irritating, either. “But I must be responsible towards you.”

 

She brushes her thumb against his hand. “I appreciate that,” she says, and her voice is only a  _ little  _ high, “but this really might be nothing. Let’s just see if it clears up. If it doesn't, we’ll talk about this again.”

 

“You are extremely stubborn,” he says after a moment.

 

“I know,” she says, her thumb still brushing across the back of his hand, “but you can't give me orders, and I’m right about this.”

 

His thumb moves just a little in a way that Arihnda interprets as agreement. She's wrong. He says: “You do not need to ‘take care’ of me, either.”

 

“Actually,” says Arihnda, finding her way carefully through the syllables, “I think maybe I do.” She thinks a little more, and adds: “At least with this. You're taking care of me with the ISB, aren't you?”

 

And he doesn't respond to that.

 

For a moment they only stay like this. Then she speaks, as if the strange and strangely comfortable silence were lifting the words from her chest: “I really don’t want to use barrierss.”

 

“It is an efficient solution.”

 

“Yes, but I don't want it.” 

 

“That is not necessary on my account.”

 

“Well that's… that's very helpful. But I just — I’d like to try again, without them, if we can. It’s… one of my desires.”

 

That eyebrow arches a little higher. “Is it?” He watches her for a moment, then: “Did your doctor direct you to refrain from all sexual activity, or only penetrative intercourse?”

 

“I — just… just the latter kind, I think. But I’m not sure I’m up for anything.”

 

“No? Let us check.” He lifts his hand, dumps hers off. She puts her weight back on her elbow. Then he touches her. He strokes a finger softly along the inside of her labia. He repeats the motion. She can feel herself contract, thinks it must be strong enough to see. “I think you respond to me in any case,” he murmurs.

 

It’s true, damn him, but somehow it doesn’t sound smug. It sounds — Arihnda isn't sure, but she thinks she may have had a flash of insight. “Is that what you enjoy?”

 

He looks up. “It is part of what I enjoy, yes.”

 

He moves his hand: he lays his palm in the junction of her hip and thigh in a way that lets his thumb trace a smooth, long stroke along the still-dry velvet curve of her outer labia, from end to end. It's a very soft motion; she could almost fall asleep to it. But it's not really putting her to sleep.

 

“Are you… trying to get me to respond, now?”

 

“Not particularly. I can stop, if you prefer.”

 

She doesn’t want him to stop. She isn’t sure she wants him to continue, either. She says: “What about your… suggestions?”

 

His thumb is still moving. He keeps it moving as he speaks: “The discussion is closed. I have told you my boundaries. I will not cross them again. I will exert a little more caution, I think, in assessing your requests, and deciding how to respond to them.”

 

Which she files as a point for later debate. She says: “Are you saying you  _ want  _ to do something, now?”

 

“I am letting you know that I am willing, if you desire.”

 

She shifts her weight onto one arm and raises the other hand to reach for him, then snatches it back. He watches all of this, unspeaking.

 

“I think we have a range of options outside of penetrative intercourse,” he says after a moment. “I can use my mouth, for instance — unless you object to receiving oral sex as you object to being kissed. Or unless it is likely that whatever irritates you is in my saliva as well as my semen.”

 

Which is at once a very blunt and very oblique way of making an offer Arihnda has almost been given — and of continuing to talk about her current problem. Their current problem. Strange, how he has made her think of it as a shared endeavor. “That stuff isn’t supposed to taste very good,” she says. It’s a dodge, on both counts.

 

He takes his hand off her, catches a bit of nab on the tip of his finger, plucks it off with his lips, and makes the most overtly expressive face she’s ever seen him make. “No,” he says. “I think I could withstand it, but this does not taste like you at all.”

 

“When did you — you know what? Nevermind.” In all the time he’d stood behind her, on that first night, touching her, he must have licked her off his fingers at some point. Or maybe he’d done it last night, when her eyes were closed. Then she thinks, asks: “Actually, would you tell me — how do I taste?”

 

“I should think you know the answer to that, yourself, by now.”

 

“I mean — how do I taste to you? Describe me.”

 

A slight frown. “Tart,” he says at length. “And perhaps a little metallic. There is a little — I do not know the word. Like  _ sour,  _ but not that. I enjoyed it.”

 

Her breathing has become a little shallow. “Do I taste like… Like your women?”

 

“No. Not so different, but enough to notice.”

 

“You, too,” she says. “But I like the way you taste, too.”

 

He raises an eyebrow. “When did you learn that?”

 

“In the shower,” she says. “Yesterday. It’s… one of the reasons I don’t want to use barriers.”

 

“Is it?”

 

“Yes. I wanted — I thought — I wanted you to —” she blushes, deeply, chest to hairline. “I wanted you to feed me.”

 

Both eyebrows raised, at this. “Feed you?”

 

“Yes, like — with your fingers, like you did last night. I wanted — I was going to ask, next time, for you to cum inside me and then feed it to me, off your fingers.”

 

And for once it is Thrawn who does not seem to have a response. Eventually he says: “That is not something I have ever been asked before.”

 

“It’s not something I’ve ever asked anyone, either,” she admits.

 

“I am not surprised.” Which doesn’t really sound like an insult. It just sounds like an observation. A truth. It feels almost comfortable.

 

And, feeling slightly aroused, looking at him lounging between her legs, thinking about the taste of him, she says: “Actually… there is something I’d like to try to tonight. If it’s alright with you.” He only raises an eyebrow, meaning something like  _ go on _ . So she does: “I’d like you to cum on me. I’d like to watch you — I’d like you to do it for yourself. I want to watch. And I’d like you to cum on me, here.” She places a hand on her stomach. He hasn’t responded. His face is unchanged. “Is that alright?”

 

After a moment, he says: “This is also new.”

 

“Oh. Is it?” Perhaps it’s taboo to his people — or maybe he just doesn’t like the idea, for reasons that are entirely his own. “It’s new for me, too,” she adds. By which she means asking for it is new for her. Wanting it is new for her.

 

“Yes,” he says. He doesn’t say anything else. Then, he pushes himself upright. “Yes, I will do this.” He stands, and undresses without any further comment. 

 

Watching him undress, Arihnda lies all the way back down, brings her legs together and stretches them out, and slides a hand between her legs, covering herself as much as anything. Her hand is much small her than his; he covers her better here, just like his hands fit her breasts better than her own, just like he makes her cum better than she makes herself. He hasn’t touched her breasts much, at all, she realizes. Perhaps she hadn’t responded loudly enough for him when he did — he seemed to like the things that made her loud. Her breasts have never been a particular source of pleasure for her, but she likes his hands better than anyone else’s. Perhaps she should ask him to do something there, too, when this is over. Or before he starts. 

 

Naked, he turns back to the bed, and considers her. Probably he is deciding how to arrange the two of them, how to pose her. He seems to like doing that, moving her around like an artist’s model — she thinks he knows more poses than the one she’s liked two nights in a row. 

 

“Will you move further towards the top of the bed?” he asks. She does. He climbs onto the bed, takes hold of her legs, moves her where he wants. She is pliant as a child’s rag toy, which she hopes he likes as well. He poses them so he is kneeling before her, knees apart, sitting on his heels, with her legs draped over his thighs. He doesn’t appear aroused at all, but watching him make himself erect is part of what she wants. He considers her for a moment, then says: “Perhaps you should undress the rest of the way.”

 

Which she should. She keeps looking at him. “Help me with it, would you?”

 

The eyebrow — but it's not mocking or amused, not arch or sardonic, not sarcastic. “How shall I assist?” he asks.

 

She reaches out. “Here, give me your hands.”

 

He looks at her a moment longer, then complies. She squeezes his hands in hers, briefly, then places them on her hips, then guides them up, under her shirt, and up, and up, to just beneath her breasts. He has to lean forward, just a little as she does. Then she slides her own hands along his arms, rests them just above his elbows. “Can you lift me from here, do you think?” she asks.

 

He thinks a moment. “I can.” He slides his hands along her ribs, under her back, up beneath her shoulder blades, fingers slipping beneath her bra straps, and lifts. She lets her breath out audibly, as a sigh; she has decided to make every sound she can for him, more even than yesterday, if she can, since she thinks he likes them. If he doesn’t like them as much as she suspects, that’s fine; she enjoys making them. She lets her head loll back, closes her eyes, and curls her fingers against his biceps, feeling how they move as he moves. She doesn’t for a single moment worry he will drop her. When she’s nearly upright, he stops. Her hips and her lower back are a little uncomfortable, but not so much she wants to move.

 

“Do you think you can hold me like this, for a minute?” Her head is still back, eyes still closed.

 

“I can,” he says. “You do not weigh very much.”

 

“Mmm. No?” She lifts her head, opens her eyes. “I think you’re stronger than the average human. Of comparable size and weight, I mean.”

 

“Yes, I believe so.” He is eyeing her curiously. “How long shall I hold you?”

 

“Just a moment. Can I touch you?”

 

“Yes.”

 

She does. She runs her hands along his arms, traces his neck with her fingertips, traces his collarbone, runs her palms over his chest, brings her hands back to his neck. She watches her own hands, and not his face, while she does, but she listens. None of it seems to elicit much response — no sounds, no changes in his breathing. She glances at his face; it is impossibly obscure. “Do you not like this?” she asks.

 

“I do not object to it,” he says.

 

“But it doesn’t do anything for you,” she says.

 

“It is not unpleasant. I am happy to let you continue. Only, I can not hold you like this indefinitely,” he says. After a half a moment’s pause he adds: “And this is not what you initially requested.”

 

“Call it an improvisation,” she says, lifting a hand from his chest and running a fingertip along one of the curious ridges of his brows.

 

And that does get a response. For a moment, just briefly, she can see him tense. She can feel it, too, everywhere his body touches hers. She tenses in response and takes her hand away. “Not good?” she asks quickly.

 

“It is fine,” he says.

 

“I didn’t mean —”

 

“It is fine,” he repeats.

 

“Are they very sensitive?”

 

“Not particularly.” There is a moment of slightly uncomfortable silence. Then: “Would you like to continue?”

 

Which is odd, that he’s the one asking her. But she does. And if he won’t tell her — that’s fine. There are things she doesn’t know how to tell him, either. It hasn’t stopped them yet. “Yes,” she says. “Can you keep holding me? Just until I get my shirt off.”

 

“Yes.”

 

She pulls her shirt off as quickly as she can without looking hurried — or at least she tries not to look hurried. She doesn’t quite succeed. He watches the entire process with his usual obscurity. She fumbles a little with the bra — working around his arms is more difficult than she expected — but that comes off, too.

 

“Alright,” she says, placing her hands back on his arms. “You can put me down now.”

 

He lays her on the bed as precisely as he lifted her from it. He is even further from  _ pleased  _ than he was when he lifted her, but he is no less careful with her body. There’s a moment, as he’s hanging over her, looking into her face with that obscure expression, where she debates asking for anything else. Her desire wins. It usually does. “Could I ask you for one more thing?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Will you give me your hands again?”

 

He draws back from her, sliding his hands from beneath her back, and complies. Again. She still enjoys when he’s obedient but strangely, in this moment, after whatever happened to him when she touched his face, she likes it a little less. She holds his hands and debates a moment more. Then she pulls his hands to her breasts. “Will you hold me here?” she asks. “Will you touch me here?”

 

And for a moment there’s nothing. She wishes he’d make an expression she can kriffing read, even if it’s just a quirk of that damn eyebrow — “I will,” he says, and he moves his hands against her, cups her breasts, and brushes his thumbs against her nipples, which are just beginning to pucker. She takes a sharp breath, holds it, lets her arms fall away, rests her hands on the mattress on either side of her head, and sighs. He changes the motion of his thumbs, begins to make small circles around the hardening tips of her nipples. This doesn’t make her want to be loud, but it does make her sigh a great deal; it makes her move her spine, a little, and then a little more. And then it makes her start to whine. She tries to open herself to as much sound as she can, tries to make as much of her response obvious to him as she can. She’s maybe a little louder than any of it really deserves, but she’s not trying to fake anything, really, just trying to make sure he hears it all. He stops.

 

She opens her eyes. He is looking at her with something like annoyance on his face.

 

“What’s wrong?”

 

“I am wondering what you are doing,” he says, a little coldly.

 

“I — I was trying to let you know I was… responding. I thought you liked it.”

 

Abruptly, he flicks a thumb across her nipple, which makes her gasp and raise her head form the mattress in a sharp motion. “I like when it is real,” he says coolly, “and I can tell the difference.” His face softens, but only a little. “I enjoy eliciting a response, not having one manufactured for me. The latter is insulting. Do not do it again.”

 

“Alright,” she says, “I won’t. But I do want you to continue... if you don’t mind?”

 

And he thinks about it. For what feels like a full minute, although it is probably closer to five seconds, he eyes her carefully and thinks. Finally he says: “I do not mind,” and starts again.

 

This time she tries to follow the feeling of his touch on her skin and not worry one way or the other about how she responds. Eventually she does begin to move again, and breathe more shallowly, and whine a little, all subtle, all soft, and none of it is heightened for effect. He seems to be able to find just the point that sparks her nerves like an electric shock, and it makes her whimper — if only a little — each time he strikes it. Eventually, between these little whines, she says, in a voice that is mostly breath: “Someday I want to try and cum just from this.”

 

“We can try now,” he says, and his voice is not quite even, not quite controlled. The subtle wrongness of his accent is just a little stronger, again. His voice doesn’t do as much for her as his hands, but it doesn’t hurt, either. 

 

She stretches her shoulders, presses her chest up, opens her hips a little wider between his knees. “I still want you to cum on me,” she says, and this time her voice is half a groan. 

 

He stops moving his hands. “Yes,” he says.

 

She opens her eyes. “Do you not want to?”

 

“I confess I do not entirely understand the attraction.”

 

She puts her hands over his, unthinking, before he can take them away from her breasts. “I like looking at you,” she says. The chemical swill of arousal in her brain has shut off most of her remaining inhibitions. She massages his hands into her breasts as she speaks. “I’d like to look at you a little more. I think I’ll like looking at you while you do this. I know I’ll like that you’re doing it because I asked — I like when you do things for me. And I want to taste you again. It just seems like it gets everything in one go, don’t you think?”

 

He gives this a moment’s thought, too. “I do, yes,” he finally allows. Then he thinks for another moment. “I would like you to do something for me, however,” he says. “Either before or after. Though I think it would be better for both of us if you did it before.”

 

“What is it?”

 

“I would like you to cum. I will use my hands, if your objection to my mouth is really so strong.”

 

“I don’t —” she starts

 

“Or we can wait until you are better. But I will wait as well.”

 

“Why?”

 

“I know very well I can relieve myself. If I have the luxury of a partner it is only half the enjoyment, often less.”

 

Abruptly, she lets go of his hands. “We’re not setting any limits on your desires, are we?” she snaps.

 

“Mine are not so dangerous as yours.”

 

She frowns, then curls a lip, then draws back inside herself. “No,” she says flatly. “No, not tonight.” There’s a suspended moment, a moment of nothing.  “You  _ will  _ be doing something I’ll respond to, if you do this,” she says, trying to make an agreeable point. “You won’t be hurting me, and you’ll be giving me something I want. Will you do this for me? Please? At least try.”

 

After another moment spent watching her face very closely, he says, slowly: “Yes.” And after another moment, which might be thoughtful, he trails his hands down her body and sits back on his heels again. They are as he first arranged them: him kneeling with his knees apart, her on her back with her knees hooked over his legs. He is still only half-hard. He runs his fingertips over her inner thighs, softly, until she shivers, and then he takes his hand and… pushes down against himself, then turns his hand in and under and grasps his testicles for a moment, and then pulls his up and little and grips his cock, and just… squeezes, slightly, like a pulse. And then does it again. And a third time. None of which is quite what she expected. 

 

She knows, peripherally, that he is watching her face while she watches his hands and his cock, and suddenly she is almost ashamed to look up at him. She’s afraid she'll find determination there instead of pleasure. He likes to do things, she thinks suddenly, that keep him in much closer contact with her — or whoever else, she guesses — touch-and-react, like call-and-response, and this is more or less the opposite. She wants to watch him, very badly; she wants him to make a display of himself, for her, to show off for her. But she realizes, with a leaden thud, that perhaps it is a little unfair to ask without giving him  _ anything _ of what he’s told her he wants.

 

“Wait,” she says. “Wait, stop.” And he does, and after a moment she makes herself look at his face. For once she’s glad it’s hard to read. “I just — let me —” And just on the cusp of offering, she gets a little worried. There's a spectre of loneliness to it, this thing she’s asking him to do, this thing she’s about to volunteer to do. It might be pleasant, or it might be… cold. She doesn't know yet what it will be for herself, but she has a guess at what it is for him. “Let me do it first,” she says, voice very determinedly not a whisper. “Let me make myself cum for you, first. Would that… be close to what you want?”

 

A moment’s thought, then: “That would be acceptable, yes.”

 

“Alright,” she says, more to herself than to him. “Alright.” And she closes her eyes and wiggles a little so her rump is closer to his hips, so her legs are splayed a little more dramatically over his. He puts his hands on her thighs, warm and steady. It helps her quite a lot. She places her hand on her open cunt, and takes a few breaths. She can feel she’s much wetter than she expected, and it’s a blessing. She swallows once, takes another deep breath, and pulls her hand back, and then pushes it down again, all fingertips, and swirls her touch in the wet. The texture is a little different than she’s used to, from the nab melting out of her, but it’s not as unpleasant as she’d feared.

 

Touching herself for him is less intimidating than she expected, once she starts. It does, in a way, highlight the separateness of them, but she gets a little thrill from it, too. The distance is fine with her. Perhaps she likes to be watched; perhaps she will do this for him again, if he likes it.

 

She pulls her fingers back, and then strokes her clit deliberately with her middle finger.

 

One of his thumbs brushes against her thigh. She shivers, sighs. “You taught me this,” she says, running her finger softly over the slick center of her fastest pleasures once again, drawing things out as gently as she can. “Going slowly, I mean.” She tells him because she thinks it will please him, and because she thinks it will make him pleased with her.

 

“Did I?” There’s mild interest in his voice, but he sounds a little distracted. She thinks that’s good.

 

“Yes. It’s much better than what I used to do.”

 

“I am happy to have helped.” There’s something a little wry in that, but something a little sincere, too.

 

And then neither of them speak for a little while. His thumbs move against her inner thighs as she teases herself, and the feel of him against her body, of being propped against his body, of being brushed lightly by his touch, heightens every sensation for her. She tries very hard to keep her fingers just as slow as she did in her own bed the night before last, but that effort only lasts a few minutes. Then she dips her fingers lower, teases the ring of muscle at her entrance with a circular motion. She’s thinking, while she does this, of how much she wants his cock inside her again. She dips her finger into herself and circles it a little more aggressively. “Do you want to fuck me?” she asks.

 

His fingers tighten a little on her thighs, just a little. “Yes,” he says.

 

She likes this, talking to him while she tries to cum. She doesn’t even care, at the moment, if she does cum. She likes the whole process. “I want you to fuck me, too,” she says. She pushes her finger further into herself. “I want to feel you inside me. I want you moving inside me.” His fingers tighten a little more, then relax. The latter feels forced, somehow. She bucks her hips a little, spreads her thighs wider. “I want you to make me scream. I want you to fill me and fuck me and make me sob for you. Will you do that, when I’m better?” And she's not really ill, but she feels that way.

 

“Yes.” His fingers are tight against her skin, now, but it’s just a tension in them, not anything he’s transferring to her body.

 

“I want you to touch me harder than that,” she says, shoving her hips towards him and rubbing her finger along the sensitive place inside herself just past the muscle of her entrance. “I want the bruises. They don’t hurt me.”

 

“Do they not?” And his voice is going wrong again, but there's a little note of disapproval, too.

 

“No,” she half-moans at him, “no. I like them.” Her voice starts to go wrong, too, in its own way: uneven, breath and moan and groan all fighting together, pitch unsteady. “I like having a piece of you that stays with me. Touch me so that you stay behind when your hands are —  _ ah — _ gone.” She gasps again here, cries out, finds her voice again: “Touch me so you stay with me.”

 

For a moment he presses his hands against her and she thinks he's going to, she's sure he's going to, do as she's asked. 

 

He doesn't.

 

Instead, he slides his hands over her hips, around beneath her back, up under her ribs, and bends low above her. She stops: stops her fingers, stops talking. She opens her eyes and find him looking at her. His strange red eyes are blazing, as if they could illuminate the pale planes of her skin in the dark. Someday she'd like to turn off the lights and try. It's equally thrilling and unnerving. “I am with you,” he says. His voice is very low, and very serious, and just as intense as the look on his face.

 

He lowers his head just a little more, hardly at all, and turns his face to the vulnerable flesh of her stomach, turns his whole unnerving focus there. He is kneeling between her legs, his spine curved like a crescent, arms bent at the elbows and slid beneath her, palms flat on either side of her spine, nose nearly touching the naked and fluttering skin of her belly. It is not, in its way, unlike the positions he placed her in on their first night: the pose of a supplicant from some arcane religion. It's unclear to Arihnda if she herself is the altar or the sacrifice. She stares at him, her body suddenly taught with uncertain anticipation, almost like fear. 

 

His face softens: even from this angle she can see it, a sign of something about to happen, she doesn't know what — then he blows. He sends a slow, cool, directed rush of breath against her skin, soft and gentle, and to Arihnda’s surprise it sparks her nerves like flint on tinder. Her lungs seize in her chest and her heart contracts, almost as if he had kissed her. He tilts his head up again when he’s done, and looks at her eyes. 

 

“I am with you,” he says again. His tone is just as serious, but his voice is very soft. He dips his head again, for a moment, and inhales. The fire rushing through her body redoubles, like a backdraft. Unthinking, involuntary, she lifts her left hand from the mattress and puts it on the back of his neck, curling her fingers in the hair and then base of his skull. He exhales: his breath is heavy, audible, hot on her belly. It sends another current down the live wires of her nerves. She takes a sharp breath, holds it. Then he draws back, sits up again, sliding his hands along her back and over her hips. He rubs her thighs, for a moment, then slides his hands back to her hips and grips them: firmly, but nowhere near hard enough to leave a mark. “Cum for me.”

 

Her breath comes back, high and shallow and desperate. “Oh,” she whispers. “Yes.” She drags her finger out of herself and across her clit and then rubs her clit with two fingers. She wants to give him something worth watching. She wants to give something worthy of his intensity. She’s the wettest she’s ever been while masturbating; almost as wet as she gets for his hands and his cock, which is not so far off the mark, really. She’s wet for him, even if it’s just to put on a show. And she uses it, the protection that her own slick wetness give her, to touch herself as fiercely and intensely as she can. And as she cums, the hardest she’s ever made herself cum, she thinks she's put on the best show she can. Even letting herself cry aloud when she cums, high-pitched and satisfied and not remotely exaggerated and still a new experience for her, is for him.

 

She tries to keep herself going as long as she can. It’s not nearly as long as he made her cum in the same bed last night, but it’s longer than she’s ever done for herself. It’s considerably longer than she went in the office bathroom. She goes on, making herself tremble, until she cries a second time, a thinner and less pleasured sound, and then she jerks her fingers off her clit and, after half a second, lays her hand protectively against herself.

 

She has to catch her breath, for a minute, after. She lies with her head tilted back against the mattress, eyes closed, stomach moving with each loud breath. She can feel him rub his palms against her hips, feel him pet her legs, softly, the way he’d pet her back and her side the first night. Then he starts making a longer with one hand motion: stroking from her belly over her thigh all the way to knee, and then starting over.

 

She opens her eyes, finds him looking at her with that strange, glowing gaze.

 

She speaks without even thinking, in a voice that is a little more strained than even she expects: “Was I good?”

 

“Yes,” he says, a little roughly. And then he leans over her, and brushes her bangs back to look at her face. When he moves, she notices that he is completely erect. “Yes,” he says again, voice still just out of shape, but only just, “you were very good.”

 

Which makes the glow inside her surge embarrassingly. She doesn’t really care. She’s thinking about the way he pushes her hair out of her face when he wants to see her. “You get more information from our faces than we do, don’t you? From human faces, I mean. The little details. You can read more there than we can.”

 

And he pauses a moment, before allowing her the point: “Yes.”

 

“I’ll grow the bangs out,” she says, again without thinking. “I was already planning to grow out the rest of it, so you could get a better grip — I used to have it longer. I’ll grow it all out.”

 

And this makes him pause a long moment, almost long enough for her to fully register her own words. Before she does, he says: “That is most considerate.”

 

And it doesn’t exactly sound like gratitude, but she likes it just the same. 

 

Her right hand is still between her legs, but she curls her left hand around his forearm. “I don’t mean to be inconsiderate of you,” she says. She is now, strangely, talking about everything — as if this were really were a relationship, as if there really were a “we” made up of both of them. “In general, I mean. I do listen to you. But I think we disagree sometimes.”

 

“That is natural between any two minds.” It’s neutral, allowing a point, nothing more. He is still looking at her face closely, inspecting, thinking.

 

“Yes.” She rubs her thumb along his skin. “Yes, I suppose it is.” Buoyed by the hormonal rush of orgasm she doesn’t feel awkward about holding his gaze at all. And she doesn't feel the painful, tender thing in her chest and middle, either, perhaps because she hasn't put herself in his hands so completely this time, perhaps because showing off feels so different from surrendering. “I can do this for you again, if you like,” she says. It just barely avoids being a question. 

 

“Yes,” he says after a moment, “that would be fine.” There is an odd tone under his calm voice, as if he were extending his sympathy, or pity, not unlike he sounded after she explained her mistake with Ottlis. To Arihnda, who is still hazy, it registers as something similar to affection, with no additional details. He brushes her forehead again, keeping her bangs back, looking at her.

 

And the post-orgasm rush fades a little, and her body makes a demand. She squeezes his arm as she says it: “I need — I know this might be inconvenient but I need to close my legs.”

 

Which makes him blink, and then he pulls away from her. “Of course,” he says. And he does it for her: folds her and bends her and brings her knees together for her. She leaves her right hand between her legs the whole time, leaves her left hand lolling uselessly beside her head. She watches him, and enjoys watching him.

 

“I’d like to be better very soon,” she says, again without thinking. She's not really  _ ill  _ but she feels that way, cut off as she is from the only thing in her life she currently enjoys, afraid that she might be cut from it for a long time. “I’d like this just to be a little scare.”

 

He looks at her, pensive, and brushes a thumb across her knee. “I would like that, as well,” he says. And the little note of sympathy, or pity, is still there. 

 

After a minute more watching her face, brushing his thumb across her knee, he moves her legs again: lifts them and gently pulls them straight and lowers them to the mattress. Then he straddles her thighs. “Shall I give you what you have asked for?”

 

Which she’d almost forgotten about, really. “Oh,” she says. She looks at his cock then his face, then his cock again. Still a little hormone-high, she stares at it, unabashed and hungry — and something more than hungry. It’s not quite the same rich blue as the rest of him; there are shades of plum where he’s flush with life, and the head is suffused with a violet color all the way to the ridge that she’s felt inside herself, that pulls so marvelously at all the sensitive places inside of her and make her feel — She stares at him and thinks he’s...  _ Beautiful  _ is the word she thinks — or almost thinks. Her mind shovels out the same sentiment, without syllables. She looks at his face gain. “Yes. Would you?”

 

“Yes.” He says it very directly. And, after skimming his fingertips lightly across her belly and her legs, he begins.

 

What he started with last time must have been something to try and make himself hard, because he skips it now: he wraps his hand around himself, and squeezes again, then moves his hand, a little, just a little. He fits well in his own hand; he’d probably fit less well in hers. 

 

This little pulsing, squeezing, hardly moving thing he does is a little different than she expects, but she gets the point soon enough. As he works, a clear bead, glistening and viscous, begins to form at the tip of his cock. Just as she thinks it might drip off, he sweeps his hand forward catches it in his palm, and rubs it back along the length of himself, swirling it across his skin with a twist of his wrist. Then he strokes himself, not terribly quickly, but steadily, practiced — there’s another bead, and he catches this one, too. And then there’s another. And,  _ God,  _ Arihnda thinks,  _ God  _ — her brain can't find its way past that to specific words like “useful” or “practical” or “helpful.” Even without her being the wettest of her life that first night, or the second, he’d probably have slid into her better than any other man. Probably this had helped anyway. She feels a weird surge of aching gratitude for the way he's built, the way he works, the way he makes her feel, and she wants to touch him. She wants to hold him in her palm and explore him with her fingers and her tongue and taste this part of him, too, not just his cum. She keeps staring, still stupid with desire.

 

The beads come faster, and he starts to stroke himself faster, too, sliding his hand from base to tip and swirling his palm around his head with a sure and practiced twist. Arihnda watches, stares, and feels a heat building between her legs. She shifts her thighs together, just a little, while he touches himself. She’s really staring, too: she can feel the hungry, open-mouthed, wide-eyed expression her face. She doesn’t even care. His cock gets darker as he strokes it, mulberry and wine, and it glistens with the strange, abundant precum, or whatever it is, that oozes from the tip. She wants very much to take him in her mouth, which she has never actively wanted, not with any real passion, before. She can see his breath in his belly, see a little jolt start in his hips. She glances at his face and finds he has a look of fierce concentration; it excites her. She presses a hand to her breast.

 

“Are you thinking about me?” she whispers.

 

“I am looking at you,” he manages between clenched teeth. His hand is moving quite fast now.

 

“But are you thinking about me?” She squeezes her breast when she says it. She’s staring at his cock again.

 

“Yes.”

 

“Tell me. Tell me what you’re thinking.”

 

“I am —  _ ah,”  _ he cuts off, hips jolting again. His hand speeds up. “I am thinking about how you sound,” he hisses. “And about how you feel around me. And about —” he hisses again “— and about how you taste, and —” he stops abruptly here, as if thinking better of something.

 

She wants him to keep him speaking, so she asks: “Do you like how I feel? Does it feel good for you, to be inside me?” It isn’t sultry at all. Her tone seems to say  _ I hope he really likes me,  _ like a little girl. 

 

“Yes,” he says, as close to matter-of-fact as is probably possible. His hand is moving very fast. “Yes. I like the way you feel.”

 

“Will you fuck me until I cum? When we’re allowed to fuck again?” Which is not so far off in the future, but feels impossibly far to her, especially because she is a little afraid it won't happen.

 

“Yes.”

 

“Will you make me scream?” Her own voice is rising, breathy from excitement.

 

“Yes.”

 

“I want to taste you,” she says. “I want —” she stops, watching him, wide-eyes and hungry. His breathing is heavy and he’s hissed something in whatever-language-that-is, she never remembers to ask, and she feels her breath catch in her throat. The beads of lubricant aren’t forming at his tip anymore and she knows, from the tension in him, the words, the tight fast motion of his hand just near his head, that he is about to cum. It feels, weirdly, special. Important. She doesn’t want to miss it.

 

He takes another heavy breath, and another, each clear in the rolling contractions of his abdomen. There is another stutter in his hips, and he slides his hand to the base of cock and holds it there, for a just a moment, and cums, hissing sharply in his language. After the first spurt of semen from the end of his cock he moves his hand again, slowly and firmy, squeezing just beneath his head with every stroke, pressing out the last of his cum.

 

Arihnda is frozen, for a moment. She feels hazy. Her own breath is shallow, her stomach fluttering. She’s still starting at his cock, which is slick and still mostly thick with arousal, and which she still wants to take into her mouth and suck.

 

He sits back, not quite letting his weight onto her thighs, and after a moment, focuses on her face. He says nothing. 

 

After a longer moment spend gathering herself, during which the lines of cum on her stomach cool rapidly, she props herself up on an elbow, and moves her other hand to her belly. She looks at the lines of cum, and the few droplets that are on their own, from the end of his work. They’re white, and thick, and entirely hers. She swipes a finger through one of them, catches as much as she can, and brings it to her mouth. She only hesitates a moment and then, closing her eyes, puts her finger in her mouth.

 

She still likes the taste of him. She sucks off what’s on her finger, swallows it. Then she opens her eyes. He is watching her with a kind of narrow, observational expression. It's not exactly afterglow. She files it for later. She takes another swipe, and then another, and another, until every drop is gone.

 

Then she looks at him again, feeling almost... confused. She is confused at the distance she feels between them, which has been larger each time they’ve been together. She can't figure out how to reverse it. “Thank you,” she says. It seems like it might be the right thing to say.

 

He doesn’t respond. He doesn’t look entirely happy, not that ‘entirely happy’ is ever an expression she’s seen from him. The closest was maybe after their first time, the wry and satisfied way he’d asked if she thought they were a good fit after all — she looks at his face, and searches for the thing that might be troubling him.

 

“Are you upset by what I said about the bruises?” She reaches for him as she says it, leaning up enough to brush her fingers against her chest.

 

“No,” he says. Then he considers. “I am not upset that you said it.” He takes her hand, and pushes it gently away. Then he swings himself off of her, and lays beside her, flat on his back, looking at the ceiling. He doesn’t say anything for a long moment.

 

Arihnda turns on her side and puts a hand on his shoulder, just like the first night. “Are you upset with me because of something else?”

 

He looks at the ceiling for a long time. Then he turns his head to look at her. “I hope,” he says at length, “that you do not pick another fight with Colonel Yularen the next time you speak to him.”

 

Which sounds, strangely, like a dodge of his own.


	4. An Acceptance of Risk, Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The second half of a long and necessary conversation. 
> 
> Learning to see another's point of view is only half the battle; expanding your behaviors to make room for them comes next. It is far and away the more difficult part.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one took even longer, but hopefully it... resolves some problems, and sets her feet marching forward.

_ 'If courage is the first characteristic of the soldier, perseverance is the second.' — Napoleon Bonaparte _

_ 'If there are opportunities, expose yourself conspicuously. As for real danger, it is everywhere in war.' — Napoleon Bonaparte _

 

 

 

 

 

Arihnda looks at him for a long while, leaving her fingers on his shoulder, letting her mind range over the past few days, over the problem of him. The problem of — of whatever she is doing here, which she doesn’t entirely understand for herself. Of course it’s useful to have his advice and support with the ISB and with her… future, for lack of a less overwrought term.

But he hadn’t been much interested in that to begin with, had he? Not overly so. Not  _ primarily.  _ He’d been interested enough to show up, but not interested in those problems for their own sake. He’d closed the topic of Higher Skies before suggesting that they  — yes, the order of things is important. He’d set aside Higher Skies before suggesting sex.

She’s the one who’d added back the rest of it.

He’d said the two things — sex, and everything else — were separate for him, but she doesn’t believe it. Men, in her admittedly limited experience, never separated those things. And if his interest in her goes, he himself will likely go.

She can only manage so many uncertainties at a time, and she is just about coming up against her limit. She needs for him, at least, to be a certainty.

She needs to feel secure in his being a certainty.

She thinks about everything they have done over the past… five days. It's not much data to go on, but it’s all she has. Strange that it has only been five days, really. In some ways they have passed in a breakneck blur, but in others they feel eternal. It is as if she cannot truly remember having existed before Ottlis brought her to Ghadi. Whoever she was before, whoever she was when she accepted her job at Higher Skies, when she went to Ottlis for  _ a couple hours of human contact  _ (laughable to her now, that thought), is a stranger. And whoever she is becoming… But she is not the problem of the moment.

He is.

She thinks over everything he has said to her or about her, every action he has taken, everything she knows about him from observation, rumor, or report, and tries to do what she does with senators and moffs and sundry other sources and targets.

Every person reveals themselves, reveals the things they want, reveals who they are, reveals how they think, reveals how they  _ work —  _ and how they can be manipulated — in the balance between what they share and what they hide. In the space between a public face and a private soul falls the shadow of desire.

And it’s in that shadow that Arihnda does her best work, always.

Sometimes the shadow is made of fear:  _ keep my secret, hide my shame _ . There is something of that, with him. His desire for discretion. His keen sense of privacy. His general reticence. In these shadows, Arihnda works with cruelty, innuendo, threat — she does not think this is such a wise idea with him. She doesn’t think it’s necessary, either. Most of all she simply doesn’t want to do that sort of thing to him, even if she can.

Sometimes the shadow is made of need:  _ give me this, and I’ll be yours forever. _ There is something of that in him, as well. Something in the general area of it, anyway. A great deal of whatever this is, she thinks, this thing they are doing together, or rather, this thing that he is trying to do with her, falls at least close to this shadow, she thinks.

Perhaps it will suit them both if she works there, just a little.

She fairly confident that most of what moves him, most of what she can use, is there. She just isn't entirely sure what it is: a desire for… She truly isn't sure. He seems to like touching, certainly.  _ Eliciting a response _ , his phrase.

And it is she herself who draws the boundary between them there, she knows.

But perhaps she can be more tractable. She  _ does _ want to be close to him, at least in the ways she can stand. She prefers it, certainly, to whatever he’s doing now.

As she thinks, she studies his body: the elegant contours of his profile, the curious shape of his brow, the deep color of his skin — which she thinks is arrestingly beautiful, rich and magnetic — the rise and fall of his chest, the sweep of his collarbone, the sinuous grace of his neck, the fine lines of his arms, the eerie glow of his eyes beneath half-closed lids, the shining midnight indigo of his hair, the elegant planes of his cheeks, the subtle curve of his mouth —

_ That _ was something obvious he’d said.  _ If you object so much to my mouth.  _ She presses hard against his shoulder, levering herself up onto her elbow. “I don’t object to your mouth,” she says.

He turns his gaze to her, eyebrows slightly raised.

“I don’t object to any part of you,” she continues.

His eyebrows pull down just a little; his mouth compresses just slightly.  _ Yes,  _ she thinks. She  _ is _ getting close to something.

“No?” he says mildly.

She’s definitely hit something. Now all she has to do is tease out the thread.  “No,” she says firmly. Which is, of course, the truth. She doesn’t object in the least to any of him. She just can’t —

“I don’t object to any part of you,” she repeats, just as firmly. She keeps his gaze, but moves her hand to the middle of his chest. “But I think you don’t like when I touch you.” Suggesting that people dislike they things they in fact value is an easy trick: people usually respond to it predictably, offended and eager to prove that they truly do like whatever it is they like. She presses her hand into him, just a little. “Do you dislike this?”

No answer. Fine. She can push a little harder; she doesn't mind a challenge. She lifts her hand to his face, hovers her fingers precariously close to his temple. “And if I touched you here?” Her voice is modulated just so, a touch of teasing, a touch of invitation — baiting.

The careful, carefully preserved stillness is its own kind of answer. It is not unlike the rigid way he’d held himself when she’d plucked her hand away from his skin the first time she’d touched him.

When she’d  _ recoiled _ from him, she realizes.

Recoiled, as if in disgust. That is precisely how it must have looked. And it had followed on her blatant, blunt question about his body, born from fear that he would be completely, truly alien to her. It had followed on his attempt to assure her of his (relative) normalcy —

But of course he’s normal to himself, isn’t he? It’s only the reactions of the people around him — people like her — that remind him, must constantly remind him — that here, is an outsider. And he’d only flinched, or whatever that was today, when she’d touched a part of his face that was decidedly alien. A part of him that must draw attention.

Stares.

Comments.

How strange to realize he is not entirely above feeling the sting of such things.

Strange, and unhappy. Something twists in her chest, unfamiliar and uncomfortable. Before she realizes what she is doing, she lays her hand against the side of his face: the curve of her palm curves against the sweeping ridge of his cheekbone, the heel of her palm fits into the subtle hollow of his cheek, the tips of her fingers steeple against his temple. “I don’t object to you at all,” she says. Her voice is a surprise even to herself.

“Do you not?” he raises his own hand, and peels her fingers away from his face — precisely, firmly. He curls his grasp around her, gently holding her where she can’t touch him at all. The only place it hurts her is somewhere in her chest.

“No,” she says. But this time she says it without conviction. “No,” she repeats, a little more firmly. “No, I don’t. Why don’t you like when I touch you?”

“I do not object to your touch,” he says.

“You don’t exactly like it, either,” she says. It’s not  _ quite  _ accusatory.

“I see you are incapable of dropping any topic,” he says dryly. Then, more seriously, he says: “You also object to certain  _ kinds _ of touch, I believe.”

Which stops her for a moment. “It’s not… It’s not because I… It’s not really about  _ you _ . I mean, it’s not…  It’s not because I object to  _ you _ specifically.”

“No?”

“If you mean when you try to kiss me, it’s not dislike of _you,”_ she says finally. Which still does not really seem to clarify what she thinks might be the most salient point. “Or discomfort with your body,” she adds, to make it explicit. “Or even a lack of desire, if you’re wondering. It’s just — ”

“It is fine,” he says, cutting her off. Probably he says it precisely to cut her off. “You need not explain.”

The last time Juahir had asked Arihnda about her personal life, before offering her to Driller as fresh meat for Higher Skies, Arihnda had been unpleasantly reminded of the empty space inside herself: the one she thought of as a permanent, hollow spot. The one she’d always, on some juvenile level, hoped to fill with companionship, with the kind of connection her parents shared: equal, fulfilling, productive. A love that enriched them both, and helped them build something together that was greater than either of them. Pryce Mining hadn’t outlasted them, or been passed down to Arihnda as her father had always wanted, but Talmoor and Elainye were still together. The thing that held them up, that made them better for having each other, was still alive. Arihnda had always wanted something of the kind. But the hollow spot had lived in her, instead: a kind of dull aching thing in her chest that she’d learned to accept. It was the only reliable companion of her adult life. After Thrawn had — for the past few days, for the first time in a long time, she’d ceased to notice it.

She notices it now: angry, hot, and stinging, like debrided flesh.

It’s tempting to let him close the conversation here, and wallow.

She decides to keep pulling on the thread of his desires, instead. Somewhere at the end of it is the answer that she needs.

“But that’s something you want, isn’t it?” She’s thinking through it out loud, now: voice not geared towards anything but her own internal processes. “It’s not just that you like sex. You obviously do, or you wouldn’t have suggested this — but it’s not just about fucking, is it? It’s not just  _ mechanics. _ ”

He doesn’t respond.

“You could have hired someone for that,” she continues. “It wouldn’t have been so terrible for you reputation. Professionals are discrete by trade, and naval officers do it all the time. But you didn’t.”

Still no answer.

She feels she is edging up on the solution, though, the key piece that locks the puzzle into place. She is not quite at it yet, but she is close — she can  _ feel  _ it. It is just, only just out of reach. If she fumbles in the dark a little further, she is sure she will find it. She will feel it in her hands like a heavy slab of ore, as familiar as her own breathing.

“You like to… You like…” She is a little ahead of her own words, but she has the  _ feeling  _ of the idea. She knows that she is right, the same way she knows she is chasing the right lead with Senator Hem.

It has, this thing she thinks — or rather, feels — about Thrawn, something to do with what he’d said about doing harm, and how careful he is about the things he does to her, how he checks so carefully about everything.

It has something to do with the way she thinks she must have looked to him five nights ago, talking about Ottlis. It has something to do with what she is is starting to suspect he thought of her then.

It has great deal to do with the way the Navy treats him.

“You like having someone to touch, don’t you?” she says finally. By  _ touch _ she means a great deal more than the sensation of fingers against skin, although she is barely aware of this herself. “Someone who will give themselves to you to be touched, I mean. Someone who wants to give themselves, instead of being ordered, or commanded. Or hired.” There is, indeed, a great deal more to it than she is really getting into words, but she is generally sure of the sense of it. “Someone who… You want someone who  _ appreciates _ you. Don’t you?”

He doesn’t answer that. He only looks at her with a closed expression for a long time.

“Did you think, from what I said about Ottlis — From reaching out to you about Ghadi — Did you think I would... be that, for you?” He makes no reply to that, either, but he looks more closed off than ever. She thinks she might have hit something that hurts.

She thinks she may have hit the truth.

She knows dimly that her words sound cruel, but she is really mostly curious. Perhaps a little amazed. She doesn’t think it’s a  _ bad  _ thing, what she’s describing. And he is still holding her hand, which she thinks is good; she squeezes his fingers gently. “I do appreciate you,” she says, half as argument and half as rebuke. “But I think you think this was a mistake. Not just last night, but all of it.”

“Do I?”

“Yes. You aren’t enjoying any of this.” Which falls at her feet, mostly, and hurts a bit to say, but which she thinks is also true. “And you don’t like when I touch you.”

“Stubborn and single-minded,” he murmurs, beginning to brush his thumb along the backs of her fingers. “When you asked this question before, what was my response?”

His face gives her very little to work with, but it seems to be moving from closed to neutral, which she also thinks is good. “That you didn’t dislike it.”

“Yet you believe I am lying. Why?”

“I—” And she stops. It’s a rational question. To answer it rationally she must accept its premise: that she believes he is, in fact, blatantly lying to her. She turns the idea over in her mind once, then turns it over again. She thinks, yes, perhaps he is lying. She thinks maybe it goes hand in hand with the way he’s two nights in a row, including this one, done things he didn’t entirely enjoy, goes hand-in-hand with the way he had done those things because she’d insisted on them, goes hand-in-hand with the way he’d shown something like caution on their first night. That’s three times. Three times makes a pattern.

Yes, she is quite sure she is right. The question is why.

Something else he’s said floats to the top of her mind. “I wouldn’t report you to COMPNOR,” she says.  “Or my so-called friends in the Senate. Never. You believe that, don’t you?”

He raises his eyebrows. “Never?”

To her credit, Arihnda doesn't do anything juvenile or dramatic in response to this. She only looks at at a point past his shoulder and absorbs the blow.

She knows exactly how dangerous she could be to him. She’d known it from the moment he made his offer.

She starts to say  _ I don’t want — _ and it’s true. But whether she wants to hurt him or not is hardly the point.

Whether or not she  _ might  _ is the point that matters.

And he has every reason to believe that, if she is unhappy enough, someday she  _ might. _

“Is that… is that why you're so concerned with… with giving me what I want?”

“I would concern myself with your comfort and your desires in any case. A partner’s pleasure is the better part of sex, from my experience. But with you there are, yes, additional risks.”

She pulls her hand out of his. She sits up completely, turns around so her feet are nearer his head and she can see his face — and suddenly she feels extremely naked.

She tucks one leg backward almost under herself, bends the other over it, folded up against her chest, and hugs herself so she feels almost covered. She looks at him for a long time, wrestling down a fresh pain in her chest.

Arihnda, beneath most everything else, wants very badly to be wanted.

And it is hard to feel wanted by someone who does not have a choice.

She steels herself, and asks the question. “Do you feel you can say no to me?”

“I believe I have already done so.” He says it clearly: concise, precise, unhesitating.

“But I mean — you’re not afraid to?” Maybe  _ afraid  _ is not the right word, but she thinks he’ll know what she means.

“It is a gamble,” he admits. “You are a gamble.”

From instinct, she reaches towards him again. From sense, she draws her hand back before she touches him.

Instead, she asks: “Would you like to stop? I can’t be the only option you have.” And strangely she finds that she is really, truly, concerned with seeing that he has what he wants. This turn of the discussion has swept her manipulative intents away as deftly as her mother used to sweep dust from the stoop of her childhood home.

He watches her obscurely for a moment. “That is not my preference,” he says at last.

“No? No, I suppose not.” She says, and continues: “But you had some idea about me, before you suggested this, didn’t you? I told you — I told you enough. Was it just that I was convenient?” No answer to that, although something very slight, like a softening around the eyes, happens on his face. And two other comments, made not an hour ago, come to her:  _ I must be responsible towards you. I fulfill my duty, whatever it may be.  _ “I would rather not be a chore of yours,” she adds. “That’s not exactly pleasant for me, either.”

“This is not as inconvenient as you suppose,” he says.

“But I’m not quite what you were after, am I?”

He is silent a long time after this. “I may have misjudged a little,” he says finally.

“Misjudged?”

He looks at her consideringly before answering. “You are more difficult than I anticipated, but I suspect this is a product of circumstance, and temporary. I believe the qualities you showed in reacting to Moff Ghadi initially are the balance of your personality and that you will find your feet again, sooner rather than later.”

She thinks about this. She does not ask him to expand on the qualities he means, although she would like to. Instead, she asks: “What if it turns out to be later?”

This is greeted with an even longer silence. “I said you were a gamble,” he says finally.

And that sparks another thought. “You knew I was a risk when you asked,” she says sharply, narrowing her eyes.

“I did,” he says. “We have established this.”

“You’re not reckless. Or stupid.”

“Indeed, I hope not.”

“You knew when you asked that COMPNOR, or — You must have known that I might — You must have some idea of how to protect yourself, if I become a risk to you.”

His face hardens. Silence unfolds slowly between them: slow, brittle, dark.

“That is not my preference, either,” he says at last.

She swallows hard, says nothing. It’s not exactly a surprise.

“Perhaps it is you who would like to stop?” he offers after a few minutes.

This time she does reach out and touch him, resting her hand lightly on his chest. “No,” she says. “No, actually. I think that… It helps, knowing that, I think. It clarifies things a little. We’re both taking risks on each other, aren’t we?” She flattens her hand. “I can be more convenient,” she adds. “I can —”

“You are not one of my subordinates,” he says. The tone is… very hard to read. Cool, pitched low, but quick and… Defensive, maybe?

Yes, maybe. She is very right about what he wants, she thinks. Not an employee, or a servant. Not a possession. Not an obligation. Not someone he commands.

Someone who gives themselves.

Someone who gives themselves and in doing so lets him feel… She isn’t sure what. Something different than whatever he is permitted to feel in his other roles, certainly. Someone who gives him a space to behave differently than he is required to behave in his professional role. Someone who gives him a space where he can be different. Where he can live out some other side of himself. And that side is — what, exactly?

She thinks of the way he chooses to touch her. Thinks of the way he’d bent low over her belly not an hour ago. Thinks of the soft kisses he’d planted there the first night before she cut him off from being allowed to to kiss her at all —

He lifts her hand off his chest — lightly — cutting off her train of thought. Slowly, he twists her fingers through his, until they are twined together: deep sapphire and pale clay. She stares at their fingers, laced together. Considers the contrast in their skin.

It has a kind of harmony to it.

“What are we, then?” she asks, voice soft and low.

This also earns a long silence, but of a more pensive, less reticent kind. “I believe I have used the word partners more than once,” he offers finally.

Which, of course, he has. Although — “You don’t strike me as the type to have a partner,” she says.

“Should sex not be a partnership?”

She tightens her fingers in his. “But you don’t… I can’t give you everything you want.”

“That is… acceptable,” he says finally. “It is to be expected, to an extent. An expression — I do not know if you have an equivalent. I do not think it translates well. Something to the effect that….” He squeezes her fingers in his, very slightly. “Everything is not everything all of the time.” He frowns. “It does not translate well,” he adds.

“No,” she agrees. “I imagine it doesn’t. But I think I take the point.”

He offers no response to this, either.

“Are we partners in anything else?” she asks after a moment.

He raises an eyebrow again. “Politics, I believe,” he says, voice slightly dry. “Your advancement.”

“My advancement,” she repeats.

His brow arches higher still. “Will it not be convenient for me to have access to an Imperial Governor?”

“Yes,” she says slowly. “And that’s why you’ve agreed to help me. With my preferred way of handling Higher Skies, I mean.”

“It is.” Then he adds: “You were not amenable to other solutions. On balance, this will benefit us both. Which was, I believe, your intent.”

She returns her attention to their hands, still twined together. Partners. It’s…. Not bad, really. She rubs her thumb against the side of his index finger, considers the word. It does not quite fill the hollow space inside her, but it fits comfortably enough. Partners. Partners in politics, her idea. Partners in pleasure, his.

His idea.

“I’m right about what you want.” It’s not a question. “I’m right about what you’re not getting, from me.”

“I accommodate myself to what is possible,” he says.

She tightens her fingers compulsively, a white-knuckle tension where they are laced through his. “That is  _ unfair, _ ” she says, mouth flattening into a hard line.

“Is it?”

“Yes,” she says, with sharp unhappiness and no conviction whatsoever. She shakes her hand loose from his. “I have to go,” she says. “I can’t show up at the office in the same clothes tomorrow.”

He doesn’t say anything to that, only watches her as she gathers her things and dresses. He does not sit up to do this; he merely tilts his chin to his chest, and follows her with his gaze.

She pulls on her clothes as quickly as she can, runs her fingers through her hair, and is halfway to the bedroom door before changing her mind. She turns back to him.

She asks him if she should expect to see him with Colonel Yularen again tomorrow. He says she can. She almost asks if she can expect him to stay, after, then doesn’t.

The next morning, Bail Organa sends a data card directly to her at Higher Skies’ office.

The data card comes hidden in a small gift box of extremely expensive Gatalentan bonbons. She’s certain the box is more than it appears even before she knows that the data card is in it. There’s an actual, physical note on parchment with the box that says  _ Thanks for the tea  _ in beautiful script. She doesn’t have to wonder if Bail wrote it himself.

When Driller sees the note, his eyes just about bug out of his head before he remembers himself. “I thought Senator Organa wasn’t interested in our program,” he says. He’s trying to sound cool. He’s actually not half bad at the little spy game he’s playing; before Arihnda discovered her own talent for it, she would never have known the difference.

For a long time, she hadn’t known the difference.

She turns the note over carefully in her fingers. “I piqued his interest,” she says.

“Do you think you can get him on board?”

“I can certainly try,” she offers. “He said he wanted to talk to me again next week.”

“Did he? Did you say yes?”

“I didn’t say either way.”

“Well, take that meeting. Let me know how it goes.”

“Of course.”

She takes the box to her desk, and gives it a quick once-over with her fingers. The data card isn’t hard to find. She tucks it into her shirt.

She settles into her station and clears up the little bit of datawork she actually has. Then she finds herself with a few hours to kill before the afternoon caf rush hits the Senate building. There’s not much point skulking around before then.

She doesn’t have much to do. She’s read what there is to read on Phindians. She’s read about the CIS and the Clone Wars, to gain context for the reading she’s done about Phindar.

She doesn’t want to read what Bail has sent her. She knows the datacard will be loaded with the letters he’d talked about, with other people’s views of her. Compliments delivered behind her back still feel, right now, just like gossip plied behind her back. And she’s not quite ready to try and think about whatever point Bail is trying to make.

She decides, for lack of anything better to do, to keep building out her understanding of Higher Skies’ shadow data architecture — and Diller’s secret funds. She knows where the money is hidden, and what parts of it won’t be missed, but she’s got more to learn about where it comes from, and where it goes to. It's been bothering her: the limit to how far upstream she can trace it, the place where it disappears in deep currents far downstream. It suggests a few things, and gives her a few ideas. She focuses on that; it eats three hours, and makes them feel like thirty minutes.

She leaves the box behind without trying even one of the candies. She’s never been much for sweets — even dessert at the Pinnacle, the night Driller had hired her, had been a rare exception.

When she reaches the senate building, she decides it was probably a good thing she was waylaid by Bail the day before. She's much better-equipped for her mission today. In most ways she’s even more unhappy than she was the day before, but it’s an old, manageable unhappiness. The hollow spot is back, persistent and familiar. The notion of  _ partnership  _ with a person who is only  _ accommodating what is possible  _ doesn’t fill it very well, after all.

She gets her caf, and bumps into an old senate aide she used to work with when she was managing the office in Bartanish Four. It’s not specifically planned; there’s always someone to bump into, and usually that someone is someone who can be used. She says hello, they get to chatting, and she drops a carefully crafted, apparently offhand comment about Senator Hem. Arihnda’s got his voting record memorized; she knows every bill he’s sponsoring; she knows what business the senate and all the committees are considering that particular day. She drops exactly the right comment, and it sparks a gossipy little discourse that gives her the next stop.

And she’s off for the rest of the day.

Watching senate sessions and hearings in progress is permitted to any citizen of the Empire, and the galleries are full of lurkers who make their entire lives from the strange ecosystem of politics. This is where most of the truly meaningful work of the Empire happens. Arihnda has always enjoyed being here — and now she’s here, for the first time, almost entirely for herself. It’s the closest to a good day she’s had since being trapped in Ghadi’s office, in spite of the hollow ache in her chest.

She starts building her web, thread by thread.

The first thing she learns is that the reading is right: Phindians are, indeed, passionately devoted to their families. Anyone she talks to about Senator Hem’s personality ends up talking about his wife as if she  _ is  _ his personality. By all accounts Phindians are a sarcastic, oblique, sardonic species — but their intimate and family relationships have a deep, guileless sincerity that most other species find surprising. Even species that are noted for their affections are a little bit fascinated by Phindian marriages, which seem to be remarkably free of dramatics. Arihnda ignores the way this reminds her of her own parents, and ignores weird sensation of something bruised inside her heart. She focuses instead on the opportunity she sees: the line of attack.

She decides all the threads in her web will be of one color.

She just needs to learn everything she can about Lady Hem.

She gives herself a break after a couple hours; she’s good at judging when her day has been as productive as it's likely to be. There's nothing she cares to accomplish at the office, either, not run down as she is. She goes back to Juahir’s apartment. She doesn’t want to wait in the hotel, which no longer feels like a refuge. When Juhair and Driller are gone she’ll be able to get a proper place of her own. She can live bed-to-bed until then.

She tries to rest; she falls asleep, but she has tense, sad, unhappy dreams — which she does not remember but which seem to involve a sensation of loneliness and of falling — and wakes more tired than before. She gets up in time to use the third dose of nab. She catches a glimpse of herself in the mirror after; her exhaustion shows clearly on her face. She avoids looking in the mirror after that. She goes to the hotel. She’s only about five minutes early.

Thrawn arrives first, alone. “Colonel Yularen will be along in a moment,” he says before even closing the door. “I expect this meeting to be more productive than yesterday,” he adds.

“Yes,” she says, which roughly means  _ I won’t do anything to cause a problem.  _ Or maybe it means  _ I’ll do my job. _

He looks her over, eyelids flickering as his gaze descends along her body and then rises to her face again. “You are feeling well?”

“I’ll know tomorrow,” she says.

He doesn't reply to that, but examines her face a little longer. Then he sits across the table from her and turns his attention to a spot on the wall, conserving himself or thinking about something in the half-bored, half-ready way Navy men all seem to share. She doesn’t try to strike up any further conversation. Neither does he.

His behavior certainly does not seem like that of a partner.

It does, however, seem like the behavior of someone who accommodates themselves to what is possible — that phrase of his that she cannot stop hearing in her head.

Arihnda’s body responds to this, to the mixture of distance and proximity, with a sad, dull ache somewhere near her stomach, and a keening, confused hum deep between her legs.

She wants to be more than merely  _ accomodated. _

She supposes that’s not entirely different from how he feels.

Yularen joins them a blessedly short time after. He eyes Arihnda with a bit of suspicion as he closes the door, but seats himself beside her all the same. He glances at Thrawn, huffs a little, and takes the datacard from his pocket and slides it to her.

“Thank y—” she starts, but he cuts her off.

“About yesterday,” he says. He says it as a complete sentence. His eyes flick very briefly to Thrawn, almost not at all, and he continues. “I understand that it’s difficult for a civilian to make the transition you’re making, especially under these conditions, and to do it so quickly. You should feel free to ask me for advice, if you need it — I’m here to support this operation.”

Which is not what she expected. She shifts in her chair, and clears her throat. “That’s very generous of you, Colonel. I’d like to live up to the expectations — the standards you have. I’m very invested in this operation’s success, and I appreciate your assistance.” She glances at Thrawn, herself, then. He’s not looking at either of them. After a moment of hesitation, she adds: “I apologize for my behavior yesterday. I was unprofessional.”

“The ISB is also invested in this operation,” Yularen offers generously. It is not really  _ apology accepted,  _ but it works well enough.

She takes data card in her fingers and holds it up between them. “I appreciate this very much,” she says to him. “I’ll let you know as soon Ottlis takes it. I’ve been thinking once Ghadi’s distracted —” she cuts off her own momentum, the natural, easy way she slips into a problem, and says: “Do you mind if I speculate a little?”

Yularen’s eyebrows are up again, almost like yesterday, but much less disapproving. “No,” he says. “Go ahead.”

“Thank you, Colonel.” As soon as she focuses on this, on thinking through the problem, on describing it, she relaxes a little. She can do this job. She understands it. She sits a little straighter in her chair. “I think as soon as Ghadi is distracted by this, he’ll be done with Higher Skies. He’ll want me to keep him updated on who Driller is watching, obviously, but he won’t care about any of it, and he won’t bother with me much anymore. We can get a recording of him putting himself on the hook for this so-called data tonight, if you wait around a little, and then he’ll be more or less out of the picture. I think the question, once Ghadi’s sitting pretty waiting to be taken, is how far you really want to go with Higher Skies and Yinchom. I think we can get more than I realized. I think we can exploit them to get a fuller picture of the rebellion. I suspect the rebels aren’t internally unified —”

“No?” Yularen is taking her almost seriously, like a teacher watching a student take a practical exam.

“Ah, no,” she says. “No. You see…” It almost feels wrong, to expose Bail like this, but Yularen will probably learn it anyway. Kriffing hell, if he's good at his job he  _ already _ knows it anyway. It's not like she's giving away anything concrete; it’s the same rumor anyone might hear. And she needs what this statement will get for her. “Senator Organa has never been receptive to anything from Higher Skies. Rumor has it that Senator Organa is a member of the Rebellion, or at least a sympathizer. When I say ‘rumor’ I don’t mean holonet shlock about Rodian-Twilek hybrids; I mean the kinds of rumors you hear in the Senate galleries from people who know. If Senator Organa and Higher Skies are both affiliated with the Rebellion, why is he so disinterested in anything Driller has to say? I think there are more than two factions among the rebels. I also think it’s possible that Driller is a bit of a try-hard here, building something of his own in the hopes of attracting attention from someone who matters. I’m not entirely sure — he’s got a single-minded focus on the Empire’s interest in mining, especially Doonium. His targets aren't chosen at random. I believe I mentioned that they all had significant mining interests? I’m still trying to figure out where his money is coming from, by the way, and all the places he spends it. The balance sheets are open to me — and the rounding errors, which is where I’m skimming from — but not the upstream sources or downstream destinations. If it’s his family money, of which there is a _ great  _ deal, then Higher Skies and Yinchom both are probably just an independent project of Driller’s; he might very well be a dilettante playing at heroics.” She pauses. “I think he’s cannier than that, though. And I know Juahir is.”

“You’re saying you’d like to go further,” Yularen says, “than your initial presentation suggested.”

“Yes. I think we can get a great deal more than a handful of anti-Imperial fraudsters spying on Moffs and Senators. I think at this point dirty Moffs and Yinchom radicals should just be considered a bonus. I can get you everything I promised, of course. I can get the list of corrupted bodyguards and the complete picture of the Moffs being watched and all their dirty laundry just as I proposed, obviously, but, yes, I’d like to push this a little further, if you’ll let me.”

“Do you have a guess at which faction your rebel friends might be linked to?”

“No. And they’re not my friends. Anyway, Juahir’s focus on recruiting meat-brained fighting men suggests someone like Saw Guerrera, but Driller’s focus on mining interests suggests something quite different. But I can’t hazard a guess of much value here, obviously: Guerrera is the only rebel regularly featured on the holonet and I don't know much of anything beyond that.”

Yularen thinks about this for a few minutes. During this time he looks at Thrawn rather more openly. There’s something pointed in the look, something that looks like half of a conversation. Arihnda keeps her attention squarely on Yularen; whatever Thrawn’s half of the conversation is, she doesn’t want to see it. Finally, Yularen says: “Do you have an idea about how long you’ll need to get us a complete picture of their network?”

She takes a breath, blows it out slowly. “No,” she says finally. “It might all come together in a moment, or it might — conservatively, let’s give me…” She thinks for a minute, then leans forward. “Actually, let’s do this: let it ride, like gamblers do. We’ll check in once a week; you can move whenever  _ you  _ decide we need to. But week by week, give me a chance to add something new, and then something else. We’ll keep investigating until we know everything, or until it isn’t useful anymore. What do you say to that?”

Yularen considers it. His eyes flicker to Thrawn again, just barely. “I’d say that’s exactly what we were hoping for from you, Miss Pryce,” he says finally. “But we’ll want to check in daily, for a little while, I think.”

“I can manage that,” she says. She doesn’t look at Thrawn. She expects she’ll see some form of approval there, at having passed what was obviously a test. She doesn’t need it. She stretches up a little, and sits back against the chair. “Now, I’d like to get that recording of Moff Ghadi for you, if you you’re up for listening.”

“I would like to offer a suggestion, before we do,” Thrawn says. Arihnda glances over at him. He is looking at Yularen, not at her, which annoys her.

She answers in Yularen’s place. “Of course, Commander.”

“It does not seem advisable to me,” Thrawn says, speaking to Yularen and not to Arihnda, “to allow this operation to become completely open-ended.”

Arihnda’s heart freezes. Her investigation is her route to Tarkin —  _ partners in politics _ , indeed. 

“I do not believe the entire rebellion, if it is indeed cohesive enough to warrant the name, can be unraveled from Yinchom and Higher Skies alone,” he continues. “And as a practical matter, the longer the investigation continues, the longer Yinchom and Higher Skies must be permitted to operate unimpeded. This is only acceptable up to a point.”

This is not remotely what she expected from him. 

“Moreover,” he goes on, “Miss Pryce can not be useful to a further investigation of the rebellion once these two cells are eliminated unless she has re-positioned herself as a deep-cover operative with a good explanation for her continued freedom. The fact that neither Miss Madras nor Mister MarDapp have yet attempted to share their true goals with her indicates they are unlikely to accept her as one of their own. Even if she were able to gain their trust, I do not believe it is advisable to place an untrained civilian in an undercover role indefinitely.”

_ Bastard _ . 

“What do you propose instead?” asks Yularen.

“I suggest that this operation continue long enough for Miss Pryce to uncover the sources and destinations of Mister MarDapp’s funding, but no further. The ISB will doubtless acquire enough intelligence from this operation, including the human assets obtained during the elimination of these cells, to further a broader investigation.”

“Frankly we have enough for that now,” says Yularen. And Arihnda’s heart constricts again, almost numbly. Of course whatever Yularen decides she’ll have to follow, but perhaps she’ll be able to redirect —

“Miss Pryce’s current activities virtually guarantee that you will have a complete picture of both cells if she is allowed to continue, Colonel,” Thrawn says, redirecting Yularen for her, “as well as a clear line to the broader network, if there is one. I only propose that her activities be limited to these two cells and nothing else, not that this operation be truncated now.”

_ Oh,  _ goes a strange feeling somewhere deep in Arihnda’s middle. Perhaps this is the behavior of a partner, after all.

“Yes. Well, it's well-thought as always, Commander. And I concur. As usual.” Yularen turns his attention back to Arihnda. “How long do you need for that, do you think?”

Arihnda needs a second to answer. She covers by taking a deep breath, slightly audible, and blowing it out slowly. What she's really deciding — what Thrawn, seeing her error, has given her a chance to choose — is a definite timeline for her approach to Tarkin. “I think,” she says slowly, “I’ll need… about… four months.”

Arihnda can't tell if Yularen thinks four months is fast or slow, but he holds out his hand anyway. “Four months, Miss Pryce. I look forward to it.”

She shakes his hand _.  _ “I look forward to it, too, Colonel. Shall we get that recording for you?”

“Let’s.”

She gets out her comm, gets out a recorder, sets both on the middle of the table. Thrawn looks over the little set up; she thinks he must be eyeing the recorder specifically.  _ Didn’t you expect me to be prepared?  _ she thinks to herself. She keys Ottlis; he answers the comm.

“Arihnda. Better not be calling to say you won’t be able to make it tomorrow.”

“Ottlis, darling, of course not.” She coos at the receiver, converting seething sentiment into soothing sound as she speaks. She looks resolutely at the comm and the recorder, shutting out the two men in the room. “I was calling to speak to your boss.”

There’s a short, dead silence. “You what?”

“Your boss, darling. Moff Ghadi? I want to make sure he really wants what I’ve got for him, so be a good little dog and get him for me.”

There’s a longer silence. Then: “Are you stupid?”

Arihnda’s mouth twists unpleasantly. “Of the two of us, Ottlis, darling,” she croons, forcing out each syllable, “I am definitely not the one who is stupid. Now get your repulsive owner and put him on the kriffing comm, or come find me and we’ll argue about it in person.”

“He’s asleep.”

“Then wake him up.” There’s no crooning in that phrase.

There is a long silence, some rustling, more silence, more sound, then an unpleasant and familiar voice: “Arihnda Pryce. Whatever you have had better make me happy; you’ve been slow enough.”

“Of course, your excellency. I apologize.” She puts her senate manners on, but only halfway. Ghadi doesn’t deserve any better. “But I have a list of all the Moffs Higher Skies is watching — everyone with Doonium interests.” She gives it a healthy beat. “And Moff Tarkin.”

Ghadi does not gasp aloud. There is only a short silence, and then: “Tarkin?”

“Yes, your excellency,” says Arihnda, modulating her voice to fall somewhere between blank innocence and slight surprise. “And Driller has quite a large file on him, too — I haven’t been able to decrypt it yet, but —”

“Don’t bother. I have better slicers than you. Just bring me the file.”

“Are you certain? It might be —”

“Just bring the kriffing file.”

“Yes, your excellency. I was going to give my report to Ottlis tomorrow at —”

“Fine, yes, whatever, I don’t care. Just make sure he gets the Tarkin file. I want it.”

“Yes, your excellency. Thank you, your excellency.”

“Here, work it out with her —” she hears Ghadi muttering to Ottlis.

Ottlis doesn’t speak for a few moments. Then: “Got him exactly what he wanted, didn’t you?”

“I’ll see you tomorrow, darling,” says Arihnda. And she cuts the call. She gives herself a moment to breathe: anger, satisfaction, grim pride. Then she looks at Yularen. “Well?”

“Well,” he says. There’s a look on his face she can’t read. It’s a look that comes from have lived long enough to have seen certain personalities repeat certain patterns. “Well,” he says again, “that seems to have worked.You’ll keep a copy of that secure?”

“Absolutely.”

“And let Commander Thrawn know how it goes tomorrow?”

“Yes,” she begins. “I’ll —”

“I believe Miss Pryce and I can devote a few minutes to discussing a schedule for regular meetings and check-ins tonight, Colonel,” says Thrawn. “Unless you want to be a part of all of them going forward?”

“No,” says Yularen. “I trust you to coordinate this. But I should be ready to take over when you’re deployed. To that end, I think I would like to meet once weekly.” He glances at his watch; Arihnda thinks this rather archaic type of chrono is an affectation of navy men. Thrawn wears one, too. “If you’ll both excuse me, I promised my wife I’d join her for a nightcap at the Pinnacle. Thrawn, catch me up tomorrow?”

“Of course, Colonel. Shall I walk with you?”

“No, no need to keep Miss Pryce waiting here for administrative business. I can walk on my own. Work out a schedule and check-in protocol. Miss Pryce?”

“Yes, Colonel?”

“Fine work so far. And you’ll get better.”

It’s not an insult, exactly. It’s more of a warning. “Thank you, Colonel,” she says. She leaves it there.

Yularen gives Thrawn a nod, leaves. Arihnda looks at the door as it closes behind him.

“Specialist Jakeeb will have his communicators ready tomorrow, I believe,” Thrawn says. There is no change in his tone, nothing that sounds other than focused and on-topic.

“Yes. Are you going to give yours to Yularen, when you’re shipped out again?” She says this to the door. She is not really thinking about Jakeeb or his comms.

“I believe I will have Jakeeb make one extra for him,” Thrawn says.

There is a short silence; she is fairly sure she can feel him looking at her, but she continues looking at the door.  _ Partners _ . He is certainly helping her. And of course she will be a convenient resource for him as Governor.

“Although you are casual about it,” he says, “Moff Ghadi and his underlings are dangerous — especially when you provoke them. Your gamble with Ottlis Dos seems to have borne fruit, but it may not always be so.” Arihnda keeps staring at the door while he talks. “I would like a regularly scheduled check, something you can make punctually each day. If you are off-schedule —”

“I do appreciate you, you know,” she says. She is looking at the door while she says it. She is thinking about the way he’d lifted her hand off of himself over and over last night — off his face, off of his chest, away from wherever she’d touched him. She is thinking about his own phrase —  _ I accommodate myself to what is possible. _

“I do not believe this is the topic of discussion at the moment,” he says.

“I would like it to become the topic of discussion,” she says.

“We are discussing something more relevant, I believe. I was not merely, as your people say, ‘talking to hear my own voice’ when I told Colonel Yularen that I think it is unwise to leave any untrained civilian in your position indefinitely.”

“Talking to hear your own voice,” she repeats. She likes it, she’s decided, when he describes learning new things. It’s alluring, somehow. Charming. And she likes the distraction. “Did you learn that phrase recently?”

“This morning, from Vanto. He used it in reference to Admiral Konstantine. I concur that it is a prominent aspect of Admiral Konstantine’s personality. Let us return to my point: the type of work in which you are now engaged is uniquely taxing. Even trained professionals can not sustain it indefinitely, not without damaging themselves. I would not expect any of the personnel in my command to take on such an assignment without guidance, or support.”

“I don’t need you to manage me.” It’s said almost reflexively; she can’t muster any passion for it.

“I believe the words I used were  _ guidance  _ and  _ support, _ ” he says. “Perhaps you should think of this as an opportunity to learn something valuable for your future career. Most challenges of any import are too large for a single being to master alone. You will need to learn to accept assistance, to discuss obstacles and options, to listen, and to delegate. Sometimes you will have to accept a recommendation or two.” He thinks for a moment, considering her. “You will need to trust both Colonel Yularen and myself, that we each have the best interests of this operation in mind, and that we have your interests in mind, as well.”

“Yes,” she says slowly. “Yes, you were very good about —”

“You must trust those around you to do their work appropriately,” he continues as if she had not even tried to speak, “not only because they are required to do it, not because they will be punished if they fail, but because they have the qualities of competence, professional pride, and self-motivation. Take the  _ Thunder Wasp,  _ for example. It would not, obviously, be possible for me to run such a ship single-handedly; I place my trust in my crew to play their roles competently and to bring errors and challenges to my attention appropriately. In the case of your current endeavors, you must delegate some of the business of caring for your welfare to Colonel Yularen and to me; this is part of our duty as your handlers, a role he and I now share. It is your job to unravel Higher Skies and Yinchom; it is our job to monitor you as you do. You must trust us to do it appropriately. This is a role you must learn to accept from advisers, later, as well.”

_ I must responsible towards you. I fulfill my duty, whatever it may be.  _ It certainly does not sound like partnership. At least, not the kind of partnership she wants.  _ I accommodate myself to what is possible.  _ “I do trust you,” she says, trying to derail the lecture.

“Let us continue with the business at hand: you will contact me daily, on a fixed, regular schedule. If you miss a call, I will take it as a sign that something has gone amiss with Mister Dos, Mister MarDapp, or Miss Madras. If this has indeed occurred, I will contact Colonel Yularen and the ISB will take over.”

“I don’t think any of them is going to murder me on my lunch break.”

“You do not take the risks of your current position seriously enough.”

She bites her lip, frowns. “You spend a lot of time assessing risk, don’t you? I’m a risk. What I’m doing is a risk. What we’re doing is a risk. Everything seems to be a gamble and a risk, with you.”

There is a short, pensive silence. Then: “We have extended to one another a certain amount of trust. That involves risk, yes. Your approach to Higher Skies also involves risk.”

“You think I’m reckless.”

Another short silence, then: “Every battle plan is a kind of gamble. Every engagement carries the risk of failure, or of surprise. To gamble, to take risks, is unavoidable in the pursuit of any worthwhile reward. I am not sure that you are reckless — but I think you do not handle the risks with as much facility as you could.”

“No?”

“No.”

“What should I do differently?”

“Primarily, you must recognize that the risks you take are are now shared by those around you. You are not merely yourself, anymore; you are one element of a larger apparatus. It is a condition common to all public servants and military personnel. You may consider it another lesson for your future, perhaps. Describe your schedule.”

“What about your schedule?”

“I will accommodate myself to what is required.” She winces when he says it. “Your schedule,” he prompts again.

The past few days haven’t been representative of it, but order is in Arihnda’s nature. She is diligent and precise and likes a sense of normalcy, when she can attain it. They settle on a call during her afternoon caf break; she usually takes it alone if she’s at the office. They also agree that he will call her rather than the other way around; having to take a call is much easier to explain than having to suddenly make one. She has a fifteen minute grace period to return a missed call before something is assumed to be wrong. He says he will bring Jakeeb’s communicators with him tomorrow. He says they should meet at the same time.

The conversation seems to be over. He does not seem interested in moving on to other things.

Arihnda is still looking at the door. She is thinking about how to expand the boundaries of what is possible so that they accommodate him, rather than the other way around.

She is thinking about what he wants — about her understanding of what he wants, or needs. What she thinks he needs. She thinks she is right that he wants a space to be… something different, something other than command requires. A place to be whatever private version of himself is starved for light, and air.

She thinks she is right that he wants to feel appreciated in a way she suspects the Navy does not entirely permit.

She is thinking, too, about the difference between touching and being touched.

It’s not a complicated difference, once she starts puzzling it over.

To be touched, to let oneself be touched, to give oneself over — if she sighs in contentment under his hands, or cries in pleasure, yes, she sees how that seems, really, like a kind of appreciation.

But if she touches him, and she is uncertain? If she touches him and pulls away? If she touches him as if he were a specimen?

She sees how he might prefer one over the other.

There is at least one way of touching her which she has not permitted to him. And it’s not that she doesn’t want the same thing, herself. It’s only…

She can stretch, at least a little. She can bend, if she has to. It is, after all, what she’s good at. This is just another sort of political arrangement. She’d told him how those work: if she scratches him right, he’ll scratch back. Sentient beings always do.

They can hardly help themselves.

“I would like for you to kiss me.” She’s still looking at the door while she says it.

The silence that greets this has a tangible snap of unpleasantness. “That is something you do not enjoy,” he says finally, voice cool and pointed.

She looks up at him and finds his face is closed.

“You don’t know what I enjoy,” she says.

“I think you do not know what you enjoy, either. I have said this at least twice now.”

“Maybe not,” she says. And maybe he is right. But she knows that the shortest path to anything is usually a straight line. She looks at the table between them. It’s a very short path. She sees the clear line of attack. And she can take a risk. “But I do know what I want.”

She stands, puts both her hands on the table, leans forward, and levers herself up onto the surface. It’s hardly a vault. And it’s not a very wide table. Getting across it is easily accomplished. Spinning herself around, twisting her hips in a neat and concise roll, is hardly difficult or awkward, not after the hip escapes she’s mastered at the dojo. It’s all one smooth action, really: getting onto the table, across it, and twisting herself to face him. Quick and easy.

She settles herself on the edge of the table, seated on her hip, leaning on one arm for balance, legs bent sideways, and gauges his reaction. If he is surprised, he hides it; mostly he is only watching, gaze narrow and assessing.

She gathers her determination, and reaches out.

She slides her fingers against his cheek and then down along his jaw, until her hand is resting in a way that lets her put her thumb against the corner of his mouth. It’s a little test, done hesitantly.

He doesn’t react, so after a moment, she runs her thumbs lightly across his lips. They feel — “I told you I don’t object to your mouth,” she says softly, still tracing her thumb lightly against his lips. “And I want you to kiss me.”

For a moment, she thinks he isn’t going to do anything except maybe wait for her to get bored of tracing his mouth and give up.

Then, very softly, he parts his lips. She feels his breath hot on the pad of her thumb and she stops tracing. Slowly, after a moment, his tongue follows his breath. It’s careful, precise: gentle, wet pressure pressing out against her skin from between his lips. He watches her face. It’s a test, she knows. She intends to pass.

She holds her breath, holds her body still, and watches him, and waits.

There is one more still moment of this — and then he opens his mouth and very deliberately slides his tongue down to the base of her thumb, closes his lips around her, and sucks. He watches her face closely as he does. Possibly it's meant to surprise her, to put her off balance and make her tractable. She can feel his tongue flex and curve against her thumb inside his mouth, a hot, wet, close feeling, with pressure from the seal of his lips, from the sucking that draws his cheeks inward — it is strange, and new, and good, and she takes a shuddering breath and flexes her fingers against his cheek. She takes a second breath and he takes her hand, curling his fingers around hers beside his face. Slowly, he draws his head back, until her thumb, wet and unhappily cold, is fully out of his mouth.

He is still watching her face. She thinks she must look surprised. He bends her hand back and turns his attention there: licks the hollow of her palm — which draws a small sharp sound out of her — and then kisses it. Checks her face again. She feels something creeping across her features which is not surprise. He turns his attention to her hand again: kisses the heel of her palm, and then the fleshy pad that anchors her thumb. Two dry, soft kisses. Checks her face, returns to her hand: kisses the base of her thumb again: a wet a sucking thing, entirely strange and pleasant. She is breathing slowly and shallowly as she watches him.

He changes his grip on her hand, so he can press his thumb into the hollow of her palm, and bends her hand back until her wrist is open to him. He moves his attention to where the end of her palm curves like the top of a heart, and touches the point of the curve briefly with the tip of his tongue, watching her face. The sensation makes her take another short, soft breath. He licks her wrist again: a longer line. And then once more: trails his tongue along the whole ridge of flexor tendon, from the base of her hand to where it disappears into the flesh of her arm. Then he kisses there, and presses kisses back along her wrist to the base of her hand, and flicks against the crown of her wrist again.

The licking is strange and doesn’t bother her like kisses do. It distracts enough from the kissing, really, that she isn’t bothered in the usual way at all. Possibly that’s intentional on his part.

Probably it’s intentional.

He takes another glance at her face, then returns to her hand. He catches the tips of each of her fingers between his lips in turn: does something very pleasant that is half kissing, half sucking, to each one, one after the other. When he is finished, he changes his grip on her hand yet again, sliding his fingers between hers and squeezing gently.

Maybe he likes that for its own sake, Arihnda thinks: maybe he likes having their fingers twisted together like lace. Maybe it wasn’t a form of complaint.

He is watching her face again: holding her hand gently and watching her face, appraising, assessing. She isn’t sure what she looks like but she hopes her expression says  _ kiss me.  _ Or at least not  _ don’t kiss me. _

After a moment, he reaches for his face with his free hand.

She flinches. Just a little, but still enough. He notices the smallest things. He stops, hand in the air. His grip on her hand loosens.

“I’m not afraid,” she says quickly, squeezing his hand tight.

“No?”

“No,” she says, pushing herself up and awkwardly rearranging herself so she’s sitting on her heels. ”I mean, I’m not afraid  _ of you.  _ It’s just — ” Words are her primary tools. Information, shaped into speech, lets her suggest, cajole, insinuate, interrogate, persuade, tempt, inquire: all the things she does, day in and day out, to shape the minds and actions of the people whose influence she needs, or whose power she can use. Not having the words for whatever this is — “I don’t know,” she finishes, voice twisted with frustration. “It makes me feel — I don’t know. But would like to try, at least once more.”

“I see,” he says. He makes no move towards her.

“Please,” she adds.

After another half a moment, he reaches forward again. She expects him to slide his hand behind her head, perhaps and pull her forward and — Instead, he tucks her hair behind her ear, then draws his hand back. She blinks in surprise. He spends a moment more watching her, then reaches out again, and places his fingers gently beneath her jaw. There doesn’t seem to be much to this: no thrill of anticipation, no feareful tender spark. It’s… fine. It feels fine. She can tolerate it. He looks at her carefully, then leans forward — she lets her eyes drift close, expecting… 

Certainly not expecting the light, chaste thing that happens. He brushes his lips, still closed, against hers, so soft it’s like breath, and pulls away.

She opens her eyes, frowns. “That’s it?” She  _ has  _ in fact been kissed before, much more aggressively than that. Just because she doesn’t usually care for it doesn’t mean she’s utterly ignorant. And she doesn’t expect that to really be his style

“Shall we try again?”

“I — yes, please.”

He reaches out again, cups her cheek this time, and leans in again.

And it’s much the same. It lasts perhaps a little longer, and it’s no less chaste. He leaves his hand on her cheek. She opens her eyes to find him looking at her appraisingly.

She scowls at him, now truly annoyed. “If you’re not going to—”

He slides his hand around the back of her head, leans in again, and kisses her.

At first she is too surprised to feel anything; too surprised to do anything but react from bodily instinct. There is not much for her to do but try and follow his lead.

Which is almost certainly the intended effect.

It is a very anatomical kiss, slow and precise and extremely thorough: it is demanding and wet in a way that some minute, still-functioning piece of Arihnda’s mind suggests ought to be disgusting, but disgust is very far from her sentiments.

He catches her upper lip between his own, for a moment, sucking at it as he pulls away, then presses in close again, slow. Then he catches her lower lip gently between his teeth and sucks that, too, in a way that makes her whimper. He runs the tip of his tongue against her upper lip and she parts her mouth for him like a starving thing and makes a wanton sound in a voice she hardly recognizes as her own.

He tilts her head back and leans into her. His tongue does something equal parts teasing and exploratory, gentle and persistent, much more enjoyable than the hamfisted probing she’s used to. Arihnda has trouble doing much more than remembering how to breathe through her nose whenever she can. There is something coppery in the taste of his spit, and a faint hint of salt, or sweat, in the taste of his lips, and she wants to devour them both. And this feels good, truly, for perhaps the first time in her life: having a mouth pressed to her mouth, moving with her and against her. She wants him not to stop, perhaps not ever. She shakes her hand loose from his and reaches for his body. She curls her fingers into the front of his uniform.

The strange and awful feeling is waking in her chest again, but she is too distracted by the demanding action of his lips and his tongue to be frightened of it. 

She’s decided to think of it as a kind of a vertigo, like the terror she'd had to breathe through when she started driving a speeder on Coruscant, with its crowded airways and precipitous drops and aggressive, relentless speed. She'd learned to manage that feeling; eventually she'd even stopped being bothered by it.

Her palms tingle and she flattens her hands against his chest, then slides them up until she can touch his skin, until she can slide her fingers through his hair. It makes the feeling in her palms, and in her chest, at once better and worse.

When she moves her fingers in his hair, curls them hungrily against the base of his skull, he groans. She presses into his mouth and whines in reply, and he wraps his free arm around her waist and pulls her towards him, forward and up, straightening his spine as he does, until they are pressed flush against each other.

She can feel his erection against her, stiff and hard through all their layers of clothing. That’s informative; perhaps he is not so slow to rise as he has seemed, after all. He only needs the things that speak to him the most.

And then he stops, pulls his mouth away from hers. Their faces are still very close together, almost touching. He has his arm around her, holding her close; his hand is curved against her ribs, thumb rubbing slowly there with no particular intent. He moves his other hand against her skull: runs his fingers gently through her hair, strokes her cheek with his thumb. He moves his face against hers, almost a nudge, and kisses her once, achingly soft —

And Arihnda is suddenly, horribly aware of the terrible, terrifying thing as it blooms into life ferociously everywhere throughout her body, all at once: the sparking current in her skin, the thrumming, heady thing in her chest that makes her lungs seize, the aching, awful constriction of her heart, a hideous, electric tingling in her palms and the soles of her feet —

She presses her mouth into his, fierce and unpracticed and unsubtle, desperate for stimulation and distraction, and clutches at him in some instinctual, fairly pathetic way. It is probably, she is dimly aware, not a very good kiss. She truly hasn’t had much practice.

He doesn’t seem to hold it against her.

And he seems to take the point.

He tightens his fingers in her hair, and kisses her back: deep and very physical and perfectly distracting. She opens for him, yields to him. It goes on longer, she thinks, than the first one — or maybe not. It goes on long enough, at any rate, for her settle into… something. A rhythm. A kind of stability. To reach a kind of equilibrium with the awful thing that is surging inside her like the tide.

Without warning, he loops his arm beneath her rump, and lifts her off the table. She makes a sound of surprise into his mouth and breaks the kiss, staring at him as he sets her on the ground.

They come apart, standing, each with their arms hanging loosely at their sides. He looks at her carefully, studies her face. The high-wire feeling in her chest is thrumming away, making her breathless and dizzy and lightheaded, but she thinks she sees a simple solution to the dizzy, humming, tingling thing she feels. Her strange not-really-vertigo. She reaches for him, cups his face in her hands. “Kiss me again.”

He does. Somewhere in the middle of it he pauses, and sits back in his chair and pulls her into his lap. She wraps her arms around his neck, slides one hand up to the crown of his skull. He holds her close and follows her mouth: lets her choose when to pull away, and when to lean in. The aching in her chest and the eddying currents on her skin persist; the sensations urge her on and on and on, like a hunger that grows the more it’s fed. She rocks her hips against him — and he makes a very short sound and grips her hips tightly to stop her.

She pulls back from his mouth, frowning. “Not good?”

“No,” he says. “Pleasurable. But I would prefer not to return to my quarters with a stain on my uniform. Either we need to stop, or —”

“Oh,” she says, blushing. It’s certainly complimentary, she thinks. Flattering. She looks at his mouth again, the curves of his soft lips, and lowers her mouth towards his, then stops. “I’d rather not stop,” she says, face almost touching his. “Would you show me how to touch you? Teach me what you like?”

He looks at her for a quiet, considering moment. “Yes,” he says finally, lifting her slightly, pushing her off of him.

She digs her fingers into his shoulders, stops him from moving her any further away. “And I want to find a position that’s comfortable for both of us, where I can…. Use my mouth.” She’s gotten much bolder about all of this, but five days is quick for a sea change, and she’s still, essentially, embarrassed by much of it. And this embarrasses her particularly. But looking at him, thinking of the way she’d wanted to taste his cock yesterday _ ,  _ thinking of the taste of his cum, which she wants to eat again, thinking, a little fevered with strange longing, oh how badly she wants him in general, she finds herself talking almost easily. “I want to feel you in my mouth. I want to taste you.” She’s started stroking his face as she speaks, hardly aware of doing so. She leans close, kisses him, talks right against his mouth. “I want all of you. I just —” she stops again, turning a little pale, pulling away from him — “I just don't want to be on my knees.” She doesn't even bother to hide how strongly she feels about it.

This too elicits a moment of silence. Then he asks, almost gently: “Do you have a position in mind?”

She takes a breath. “A few, actually,” she says. “If you don’t mind trying them?”

“Not at all.” And there is a little curve to his lips when he says this. He says it so seriously, but the curve tells her that perhaps he is laughing at her a little, too.

She doesn’t mind. Instead, she leans forward and presses her lips to corner of his mouth, where the curve is almost obvious. And then she kisses him again —

“You do not mind this so much after all, I think,” he says very dryly when she pulls away. He is definitely amused at her expense.

“No,” she says, kissing him again. “I suppose I was wrong.”

“A good sign that you can admit it,” he says. She kisses him again to cut him off from any further lecturing. “But perhaps we should move on?” he adds when she is done.

“Yes.” She doesn’t make any move to get up. She’d rather stay sitting. She kisses him again, simply because she wants to —

And he pushes her away again, so she is practically hanging off the ends of his knees. “You must let me undress.” The tone of this is decidedly more serious.

“Oh,” she says, scrambling off of him. How long does he have, really, between when he gets hard and when he starts… how should she even describe it? Leaking? Is it just from being aroused for long enough, or is it only activity that makes it start? She’ll have to ask. “Of course. I’m sorry.”

“It is fine,” he says, rising, and beginning to undo his clothing. “We are still new to one another.” Which is, of course, true.

He is a little less particular about taking off his clothes this time, she supposes because the pressing matter of keeping them  _ clean  _ outweighs his propensity for keeping things neat. She stands rather stupidly beside the table and watches him.

“I suspect you would rather not stay here?” he says to her when he is done.

“What?” He is very beautiful, and she is simply staring. “Oh. No,” she says, registering his words.

He makes a gesture towards the bedroom, which is across the table from them, something that indicates  _ after you _ as much as  _ let us go.  _ She takes the hint, and turns away from him, and walks to the bedroom. She can hear him walking behind her, like the old Corellian myth of the wife-in-the-window who vanished when her lover turned from his work to check for her. She doesn’t look back. It’s strange for such a story to come to mind — she wonders if perhaps that’s what he is to her. A wife-in-the-window. She shivers, and turns around.

“I don’t think I like this very much,” she says. “Me with my clothes on and you naked. I think I like it the other way, though.”

“Do you?” he asks with mild interest.

“Yes. And I like that you help me undress.”

“Shall I help you now?”

“Please.”

When she is naked, they stand together for a minute. His hands are on her hips and hers are on his shoulders. She still has the strange sensation, as if there were a current running all across and through her body: sparking in her chest, crackling in her palms, coiling between her legs — but it is not really arousal, or lust. It is stronger and stranger by far than either of those, whatever it is, this not-really-vertigo, nameless and frightening. She stretches up, and kisses him very briefly. It does not help at all, this time. She can feel him hard against her. She pulls away. “How do you want me?”

“I think this will work best if we lay together,” he says.

It only takes a minute to arrange themselves on the bed, shoulder to shoulder, side by side.

“Do you want to…” Taken with a sudden, keen anxiety about her own abilities, she looks up at his face. “Do you want to tell me what you like?”

He considers this for a minute  — or rather, considers her. “I think I will let you decide,” he says. “Explore at your leisure.”

Which she does not know how to respond to, at first. She turns on her side and props herself up on an elbow, and places her hand in the middle of his chest.

It is not entirely unlike last night.

It is utterly unlike last night.

She is not quite bold enough simply to reach out and wrap her hand around his cock, which is lying heavy and thick against his belly.

Of course she’s done this before — a version of it, an awkward kind of rub-and-tug, not done with much confidence on her part, and likely not enjoyed by her partners.

But he is different. She cares very much that she please him. He means something to her. Taking him in her hand means something to her.

She leaves her hand on his chest for a moment. She likes the contrast of her skin against his, and the accent of the dark polish on her nails, which she thinks compliments them both. She trails her fingers cautiously down his chest and then lower and then spreads her hand flat against his belly, just above his cock, where she can feel his breath.

Then she lifts her hand, and slowly, slowly, wraps her hand around his cock. She takes hold of him as gently as she knows how.

He feels more or less the same as other men. The only difference, really, is how she feels about holding him.

She likes the feel of him, solid in her hand; hard, but pliant at the same time. Usually she has found this — holding a cock — somewhat awkward. She likes cocks, with their distinct variety of textures: the skin soft, everything inside so easy to feel through the skin, the way the skin moves more than skin should, all of it so… So unlike any other part of a body. An organ, distinctly: unnerving, strange, lovely. But no man has ever seemed to share her enthusiasm for it — or at least they never have much enthusiasm for  _ her _ touch.

Which is fine; she much prefers the feeling of a cock inside her body to the feeling of one in her hand.

His body feels the same as human bodies, here, but — but perhaps because of who he is to her, she feels a strange strange, aching wonder at the feeling of him in her hand. He feels alive. Full of life, and beautiful. The heady constriction in her chest comes sharp and fierce. 

She is suddenly, acutely, aware of how vulnerable he is — how vulnerable this part of him is. And strangely, this sense of his fragility makes her feel fragile too, inside and out. She wants to draw him inside herself as if her body were a place of shelter, as he has been for her, more or less, she realizes, since Ottlis brought her to Moff Ghadi.

Perhaps that’s the feeling of having a partner, after all.

And she is grateful. Appreciative. There’s more sincerity than ploy in her desire to show it.

But she doesn’t know what to do for him. Not how to do it  _ well _ , certainly _.  _ She looks up at him, brows raised, lips parted, and says: “Would you use my hand? Show me what you like?” Her voice is soft and hungry, low and gentle all at the same time.

“Of course,” he says. It has the strange, almost tender tone he’d used last night —  _ I would like that, too _ . Impossible for her to figure where it comes from — pity, maybe. As long as she is giving him something he wants, she decides, it probably doesn’t matter. He wraps his hand around hers, and squeezes, much more firmly than she would have expected, and then tugs, just a little — the same pulsing motion he’d used for himself, last night.

“I remember this,” she says after a few seconds. “Let me try?”

He lets her hand go and she imitates him, or tries to —

“No,” he says quickly, putting his hand back over hers, “like this.” And he shows her again, a little exaggerated in his slowness. Mostly she seems to need to be encouraged to grip him more firmly than feels safe to her, but he repeats it with her again and again, patiently. The slow speed doesn’t seem to dampen his pleasure, either; one of the strange liquid beads gathers at the top of his cock. He ignores it, and it grows, spills, runs down over their hands. It is hot and viscous; it feels thick as it rolls along her skin, and it leaves a trail, shining wet.

She stops her hand, shifts her body up onto her free arm, bends forward, and licks at the trail where it starts at the head of his cock. It has the same mineral taste of his cum, only much stronger — perhaps it is where the mineral taste came from in the first place, this fluid mixed with the rest.

And the head of his cock is pleasant, too, beneath her tongue. She licks her lips and lowers her head again, passes her lips over the head of his cock, closes them just below the ridge she likes so well. She’s done this, too, but not from her own authentic impulse before, and she doesn’t examine the new sense of feral hunger or enjoyment that animates her.

He pushes her hand a little lower, making room for her mouth, which she thinks is certain not a bad sign. It's probably a good sign. 

She likes the feel of him in her mouth, likes the salt and the mineral taste, and the strange, sharp, claustrophobic animal musk of him. She likes the textures of him, too. Fleshy, yes, but not in the least repulsive: he is firm beneath soft, wet skin. She slides her lips lower, until they are almost where his hand is wrapped around hers — and he pushes her hand down, again, just a little, just the suggestion of doing so. A very good sign, she thinks. She hopes. She takes a little more of him in her mouth, explores what’s in her mouth with her tongue, is rewarded with the smallest, soft hitch in his breath — and these are all, all of his responses so far, very good signs, she thinks. Hopes.

She pulls back, slowly, sucking at him gently, and a little hungrily, as she does. Then she sits up and looks at his face and finds that he is watching her, more or less patient, very attentive.

“I like the way you taste,” she says, voice a little high from breathlessness. She squeezes his cock while she speaks. Probably it is not such a bad idea, she thinks, to tell him what she appreciates about him, and how much, in detail. Probably it is not a bad idea to do what she can to show that she wants him. “And I like the way you feel,” she says, breath back, voice low with hunger. She squeezes his cock again, tries to stoke it a little beneath his hand. Then, trying to be gentle, succeeding at least, apparently, in not being overtly unpleasant, she pulls her hand away. She reaches for his face with her wet hand, cups his cheek, strokes his cheekbone with her thumb. And then, because there is nothing more stopping her, she leans forward and kisses him.

After a moment, going along with the change in focus, he kisses her back: lifts his free hand to her head, touches her face with his knuckles, then slides his fingers through her hair, then cups the back of her head. He starts to pull her close, which will end, she thinks, with her lying on top of him. She slides her own hand around the back of his head and pulls, hoping he will follow the weight and the motion of her body as she rolls onto her back — which he does.

And this is very pleasant, lying half beneath him and being kissed, even if it does make the awful vertiginous thing surge horribly inside of her.

Then his kisses turn soft, and gentle, and the surge in her chest becomes more than she can stand; she whines, high-pitched and desperate and quitely distressed, into the gentle motion of his mouth and he pulls away. His fingers are curled mid-stroke through the hair by her temple and he has an expression she is coming recognize: assessment, uncertainty, question. A look that says, perhaps,  _ is this hurting you?  _ Or worse, maybe it means,  _ are you disgusted? _

“Mm,” she says quickly, gathering herself, stroking the side of his face, leaning up to catch a very quick kiss from his lips, “I want to feel you in my mouth.”

He doesn’t say anything to that. She runs her fingers against the side of his face again.

“I’d like you to sit on my face,” she says. She’s tried that a couple of times. There’s something she likes about it, feeling enveloped, sort of. It’s never worked particularly well, mechanically, but she’s more than willing to brave the gagging for him. And she’s hoping it will work better than that. 

She’s hoping it will simply work the way she always wants it to.

He continues studying her, and finally says: “I do not think that will give you much control.”

And the implication of that is obvious. “It’s alright,” she says, running her fingers through the hair at his temple, “I trust you.” Which is true, more or less. Then she adds: “I’d like if you try for me.”

The skeptical look he is giving her goes on a little longer. She keeps running her fingers softly along his face — she intends it to be encouraging, or at least reassuring. Maybe it is, because eventually he says: “Very well.” and pushes himself to his knees, and then, with some slightly awkward maneuvering, kneels over her face.

Arihnda is really very comfortable, flat on her back on the soft bed, and she likes the solid mass of his thighs to either side of her face, and she would like his cock, which is very close, in her mouth — but she wants to ask for one more thing, first. Something that has just occurred to her, and that is just for her.

“Would you sit on me? On my chest, I mean.”

And that elicits a very doubtful reaction, indeed. After a skeptical pause, he says: “I weigh a great deal more than you.”

“I know,” she says. “You don’t need to stay there very long. Just for a minute.”

Still looking down at her doubtfully — or at least she thinks it is doubtful, it is hard to tell from this angle — he lowers himself back onto his heels, which puts some of his weight on her chest, but not nearly all of it.

“More than that, please,” she says. And then she adds: “You won’t crush me.”

He doesn’t lower any more of his weight onto her. Instead he says: “What, may I ask, is the purpose of this?”

For which she doesn’t have a very good answer. The purpose is to feel compressed, somehow: held together, solidified, stabilized. To feel him, and to feel the weight of him as a physical metaphor for the way he seems sturdy and substantial, as if feeling his mass entirely might transfer some of his reliability to her. But it is a strange and difficult idea, one that she has not fully articulated. Instead, she says, with an honesty that surprises her: “I don’t know. I just want to feel you, for a minute. Would you sit down, please?”

And after a slight pause, he does, slowly, a little at a time, as if he were gauging the changes in her breathing as he did so. When he has lowered what must be almost all his weight onto her chest, and she can hardly breathe, she closes her eyes, and exhales, slowly, until there is nothing left in her. Then she doesn’t breathe at all, for a short moment.

Then he sits forward. Her lungs expand of their own accord.

One of his hands finds the top of her head; his fingertips move through her hair.

She lets her head loll sideways into his thigh, nestles her face there, and curls her arms up around him as much as she can. She can just rest her fingers against the small of his back.

She takes another breath, then another, sighs a little. “Thank you for that,” she says.

He makes no reply; there is only the feeling of his fingers moving through her hair. That’s pleasant enough for a minute, but only a minute. She moves her face against his leg, kisses him there, then moves again, lifting her head as much as she can, trailing kisses upwards towards the junction of his legs, which she cannot quite reach — but she can reach part of him, with her tongue, part of him that is soft and delicate and connected to what she wants.

What she does with her tongue, reaching up to touch him with the flat of it as much as she can, to explore the surface of him here as completely as possible, seems to get her intent across. He brushes his fingers through her hair once again and shifts back and up, away from her, and takes his cock in his hand and angles himself down for her, all of which she watches open-mouthed, like a hungry dog — and then he pauses, in what she is coming to recognizes as typically  _ him  _ fashion, at least in sex. One of his little checks. Possibly these will happen less frequently as the two of them become less new to each other, but for the moment she appreciates them.

She closes her mouth for a moment, just enough to speak. “Is this position good for you?”

“I have never tried it before,” he admits.

Which is not the answer she expects. “Do you — do you want to try something else, instead?”

“No, I believe we will try this for now.”

“Oh, good. I’ll let you — let you decide the rest of it, I think.” She settles her head back on the bed and opens her mouth again, tongue out a little, flat against her bottom lip.

He shifts his weight, leans forward onto one arm, shifts his hips, and lowers himself into her mouth. She has to open her jaw her a little wider than she’s used to, but overall it’s the same as it ever is — just, like holding him, different in how it makes her feel. His soft skin and solid flesh, stiffened with life and desire, feel and taste like only him and she closes her lips and moves her tongue, and hears him breathe — not a dramatic noise, just audible enough to seem like a good sign. To let her tell herself it’s a good sign. He holds himself still above her and she moves her head as much as she can, testing, exploring him with her tongue, sucking, tasting, enjoying the feel of just the head of him in her mouth, enjoying the trust and desire it indicates, trying to do well — this is, after all, a way of showing her appreciation.

He seems to respond well to pressure, when she sucks enough to draw her cheeks in sharply; she alternates this with a flickering, swirling of her tongue against and around his head that is mostly for her own enjoyment but which he seems to find pleasant, too — she hopes so, anyway. The pressure she makes with her mouth seems to work almost as well as the pressure he makes for himself with his hands, and one of beads gathers at the tip of his cock, she feels it with her tongue as it starts, licks it, swallows and sucks harder, but only for a moment, tilting her head back as far as she can until only the tip of his cock is against her lips.

He takes her intent and pulls back for her. She looks from his cock to his face and says: “I’d think I’d like if you tried moving a little, please. Not too much, though.”

Either his expression is inscrutable or it's just difficult to see from this angle. But he says, “Very well,” and brushes her bangs away from her forehead and takes his cock in his hand, and lowers himself into her mouth again. 

He needs needs to experiment with his own balance, motion, angle, until he finds a way that's comfortable, apparently, for him to sit and move.

He moves carefully at first, a slow, shallow, exploratory stroke in and out, a few times, and then stops, and says, voice a little odd in the way she likes: “Could you — a little pressure would help.”

She makes a noise of assent around him, and closes her lips gently around him. When he moves again, she tries to coordinate herself for him a little: sucking in her cheeks against him as he pulls back. It seems to work, because he speeds up just a little, cautiously but surely, and he says something she can't understand —

And then one of the beads comes again. She isn't in control enough to feel it, or catch it, or expect it. It drips into the back of her throat and lands without warning in the worst way possible, lands at the worst moment while she’s trying to breathe, lands in the worst spot possible, and suddenly she can't coordinate anything. She chokes, sputters, and suddenly it's all she can do to breathe, and not bite, and not gag.

He pulls himself off of her very quickly; slips a hand behind her back; helps her upright. Probably it’s impressively coordinated, but she's not exactly paying attention. She’s wheezing, and when she finally recovers her breath to speak the first word that comes out is “Sorry.” And then she repeats it, a hurried string of  _ sorry  _ and  _ I’m sorry,  _ tumbling over each other meaninglessly a few times, a little desperate.

“It is fine,” he says.

She is holding her head in her hands, covering her ears for some reason, taking deep breaths. It’s as stupid, this thing that’s happened to her, as choking half to death on a drop of water that’s been swallowed wrong. It is the worst timing, the most humiliating, the stupidest —

She becomes aware that he is stroking her back, softly, with just his fingertips. Not speaking, not doing anything else: just kneeling beside her on the bed, gently stroking her skin, waiting.

She slides her hands back behind her neck and laces her fingers together there before looking at him. She looks over cautiously. His face is very, very carefully blank: the subtly tense blankness of the very first time she’d touched him, and snatched back her hand. It makes her heart twist sharply and painfully in her chest, and several stupid things, all meant to be some blend of reassurance and apology, spring to her mind:  _ it’s really not you, I’m sorry, I love your cock, I love you _ —

She pushes that last thought —  surprisingly, frightening, confusing — far, far from her mind as fast as she can.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “Really. I didn’t mean to — I’m sorry. Can we try again?”

His hand stills against her back. His face gives nothing away which is, frankly, worse than any other option she can imagine. Cautiously, she takes a glance down between his legs, and grimaces. She can’t blame him, really, for having lost his erection.

His silence goes on longer than she would like and she feels the need to fill the space. “Or  — we can try something else. Whatever you like. You could kiss me again. Or… Or, anything. Whatever you like.” It’s meant to be practical, a kind of business offer. It comes out rather more pathetic than that.

He goes on considering her for another minute, then moves his hand from her back to her head. He starts running his fingers through her hair again, and she thinks vaguely that he must like the texture. She wonders if it’s the part of her body that feels most like the women from his own home world, and if that matters to him. She wonders if he misses his home, his people. She thinks he must.

“I’m really very sorry,” she says. And the tone in her voice comes not so much her own embarrassment as from the strange new sorrow she feels from thinking that he must indeed be lonely, and homesick. As eager as she’d been to leave Lothal, she’d been homesick, too, when she had first come to Coruscant. And she’d been alone. “Will you kiss me again? Please?”

“Yes.” He shifts so he is sitting cross legged, and holds out his hands, low and wide, in a way that invites her.

This is new for her, and he has to coach her with his hands a little as she climbs onto him, has to direct her with light touches until she is sitting in his lap with her legs wrapped around him. She has her hands resting flat on his chest, and he is holding lightly, almost cradling her.

“What…” she isn’t sure she’s supposed to be talking, but she has to ask. “What are we supposed to be doing?”

“You are supposed to be breathing,” he says. And he doesn’t offer her any other help. He does watch her attentively, however.

She doesn’t really understand the purpose of this. It’s strange and a little uncomfortable, the way he just keeps looking at her. Just like the first night, she escapes it by pressing her face into his neck, closing her eyes, and breathing in. She exhales slowly, and breathes in again.

He takes the point of this, too: he slides one arm around her waist, puts his other hand gently on the back of her head, and turns his face to her temple.

Simply being held does something to her. Her whole body begins to feel electric, again — strangely so, much fainter than before, as though a charged mist were clinging lightly to her skin, soft and golden. For a moment, this is how they sit. 

Only a moment, though. Arihnda pulls her head away from his neck and presses her mouth to his shoulder. She has hardly let him kiss her, before tonight. 

She hasn’t kissed him at all.

She finds likes the texture of his skin against her lips. She kisses him again, and again, tracing a slow path back to his neck, and kisses him there, too. Kisses up the curve in his neck that’s formed by whatever rope of muscle it is that sweeps from the base of his skull down and around to his collarbone — the one that makes a prominent, elegant line beneath his skin whenever he turns his head. Kisses his jaw. Stretches up all the way from the base of her spine and kisses his ear. Kisses his cheek. Stays there for a minute, with her face pressed against his.

He pulls away from her, and looks at her with an expression that is less closed, and less obscure. Still appraising, but not narrow or skeptical.

Then he kisses her mouth. It’s the kind of soft, gentle kiss that makes the tender feeling in her chest surge and ache so terribly — which it does now, too. She is still not quite sure how to breathe through it. She pulls her mouth away from him, slides her hands up to his neck, and leans back until she can look him in the eye. “I want you in my mouth,” she says. “Can we try again?”

A moment’s hesitation — but only a moment. “Yes. But not the same position, I think.”

“No, not that one,” she agrees, moving her gaze from his eyes to his lips.

“And not immediately.”

“Is there something else you’d like to do first?” She is stroking her fingers absently against his neck, staring somewhat vacantly at his mouth.

“Yes. Lie back for me.”

What happens is less lying back than being lowered, another odd parody of the night before. In the end, he is kneeling between her legs, again. Her legs are draped over his thighs, again.

He runs his fingers lightly over her torso: over her breasts and her belly and down to her hips, again and again, until her breath is high and shallow.

Then he bends over her, stoops above just like the night before: strange and eerie and worshipful.

And he lowers his mouth to her belly and kisses her there.

It sparks everything at once, and she whimpers instantly. It is very distinctly a sound of distress. He looks up, the same question on his face, and she puts her hands on his head: gently, she hopes. She hopes it is reassuring, too. “It’s alright,” she says. “You don’t have to stop.”

“No?”

“No — no,” she says, shaking her head, curling her fingers in his hair, “I’m alright, really. It’s just —”

“Perhaps,” he says, voice quite cool, “you can tell me what is so upsetting.”

“I’m not —” she says to the ceiling — “it’s not — ” She looks at him, finds him watching her closely, looking distinctly displeased. Maybe she should try to explain. “I’m not upset, really. I just feel — I don't want you to stop, it's just — ”

As she speaks — prattles, really, entirely unlike herself — an interesting change comes across his face: cold irritation gives way to thoughtfulness and then to something almost humorous.

“I don’t know,” she finishes lamely.

“No?” he asks, quietly amused. “Do you not?”

Her annoyance rises like a summer storm, blocking out most everything else, and she frowns at him. “And you do?”

“I have a suspicion,” he says, very clearly entertained. It is difficult to tell whether the openness of his emotion or the nature of it is the more surprising. He drops his mouth to the closest patch of her skin, briefly.

“Are you going to tell me?” she asks, watching him, now too distracted to be upset.

He raises his head again. “No,” he says seriously. Then he adds, amused again: “I think you will figure it out.” And then he returns his mouth to her skin, kisses her belly methodically, inch by inch. She leaves her hands curled in his hair, which helps her, somehow, a little, though not much. He doesn’t seem remotely bothered by her audible efforts to breathe evenly, or by the little mewling whines that don't really come from pleasure and that she tries very hard to suppress, now that he’s learned whatever it is he’s learned. He seems to almost to enjoy her distress, now.

But she feels more than just distress. She feels pleasure, too: a great deal of it. Whatever the strange, vertiginous feeling is, it makes everything, every touch, every hint of sensation, so much the more intense. When his kisses reach her breasts, she moans very loudly indeed, mostly from pleasure alone. When he takes a nipple between his teeth — worries at it gently, and grazes it with his tongue, and closes his lips against her skin — she wails aloud, and clutches his face against her, and brings her legs up and around his waist all at once.

She can feel him — exhale? Or snort? Or  —  _ laugh.  _ The sound is soft, and deep, and only a little sardonic.

“You're not nice.” She says. It’s petulant and whining and confused: a child’s complaint, instinctual, unthinkingly dragged from the primitive depths of herself.

He lifts his head and she sees that he is smiling. She forgets, for a minute, how to talk.

He drops another kiss on the swell of her breast. “Am I not? But I think you like this very much,” he says. He sounds utterly smug — but not, truly not at all, unkind. He kisses higher on her chest, just below her collarbone. “It is not a bad thing, laughter,” he adds mildly. Then he kisses her mouth. This kiss is deep and slow and confusing, but very pleasant nonetheless. It makes her body sing all over: a sweet, high note that echoes in her chest.

When he pulls away he gives her a look that is more than a little self-satisfied. “I think we can accomplish something you asked for yesterday.”

Arihnda’s mind is more or less flattened; she doesn’t remember what she asked for, nor does she care. “Oh?” she says.

“Yes,” he says, still sounding amused. “I think it will work quite well, in fact.”

He sits back, and pulls her so her hips are very close to his, and begins to brush his fingers along her torso again. He does not seem in any particular hurry to make her do anything, but when her breathing starts to have a little whine to it he seems satisfied, and cups her breasts with his hands. He leans over her blows, softly, against her skin.

She bites her lip, moans, squirms, tries to decide something to do with herself, with the overabundance of feeling that’s roiling inside of her. She doesn’t have much success.

He takes one of her nipples in his teeth again and does much the same thing as before. It gets much the same response, and he laughs again. It’s a soft, subtle sound: short and mostly made of breath, and rich with amusement at her expense.

“Not nice,” she whines again, sounding stupid.

“Did I promise that?” He sounds very entertained indeed. He moves his mouth to her other breast, does the same thing. Her reaction is louder, here. He spends an extra moment: swirls his tongue around and sucks on her gently as he pulls his head back.

Then he begins to touch her breasts slowly. Methodically. He strokes his fingers over and around the curves of them, from base to areola, over and over. His touch is light, and sure, and patient. He does not touch her nipples at all, and they soften, rather than harden, as he strokes her skin.

At first it is very relaxing; it seems like a break, a respite, from everything else. Arihnda still feels electric everywhere, but the light, trailing touch of his fingers on her breasts has a soothing quality, a kind of hypnotic effect that unwinds the tension from her body. She is distracted, for a moment, by the fact that doesn’t really have anything to do with her own hands, although part of would like be touching him — resting her palms against his arms, maybe, as he works, but she doesn’t really seem to have a role in this other than to give herself over to him. To be at once in his hands and out of his way, somehow. To yield herself, and let him find what he wants. She puts her arms back above her head, hands half-curled in soft, relaxed fists, and breathes slowly. 

Little by little his touch calms the strange electric currents inside her and makes her feel loose and warm and safe and undone. She closes her eyes. She could lie back and float on the feeling forever.

And then, slowly, very slowly, it starts to have different effect.

She still feels warm and safe, loose and unwound, but she is starting to feel a little charged, too. Her breasts start to feel — she doesn’t know the words for it. Good, certainly, very good. Light, somehow: warm, pleasant, soft. Loved, perhaps, although that thought is very far down in her mind, and unformed. 

Her nipples begin to harden — not into dramatic knots, with puckered areola, but into very small, delicate pearls at their centers. A soft warmth begins to gather between her legs, and deep inside her. A strange, sinuous network of humming nerves unfurls between her nipples and her cunt; the thrill in one snaking in a gentle current to the other, and vice-versa.

Her breathing deepens and she begins to sigh, and it seems to be signal that is waiting for. He stops stroking her breasts and cups them gently. Then he passes his thumbs lightly across her nipples, both at the same time; she bites her lip, whimpers, and pushes her chest up. He brushes his thumbs across her nipples again, just as lightly, much more lightly than should seemingly do anything, and she squirms, just a little, again. The humming vinework of nerves connecting her nipples and her cunt seems to pulse with sensation.

The tingling thrill of it is strange and gentle and new, and it brings a swell of tender, aching sentiment — and in so doing breaks the relaxed, hypnotic spell of her surrender. Suddenly she is awake and when he passes his thumbs across her nipples again, she focuses on the sense of stimulus, something familiar and manageable, something she knows how to enjoy. She narrows her thoughts down to the desire to — really, she can help herself with this part. She moves as if to reach between her legs —

And his hands still. “You have an itch?” he asks, sounding almost as if he might be teasing her.

She stops moving as if she were programmed to do it, eyes shut tight. “Yes,” she whines at him, half a question.

“Oh? Still, you should be patient,” he says, admonishment and amusement twined together in his voice.

“Please,” she whines.

“Be patient,” he says again, sounding deeply entertained. And then, lightly, he adds: “Put your hand away.”

She whines again, but does as he’s asked.

He brushes his thumbs over her again, and again, slow, unhurried, light, and the eddys of pleasure that travel up and down the vine of nerves become an unbroken current. She twists her spine against the mattress and circles her hips, not quite against him. She can feel that he is hard again, his erection pressing into her buttocks. He passes his thumbs across her nipples again and she bites her lip hard and keens and tenses, and huffs. 

The slow, floating feeling is gone, vanished in smoke, and she doesn’t know how to get it back. Now all she feels is the too-much-not-enough tease of frustration. She wiggles her hips a little, as if that will help, and whines again, unhappy — and he stops.

She opens her eyes, looks at him. He is giving her a considering kind of look, appraising. She feels half frustrated, and half apologetic. “I’m sorry,” she says, “I just think —” she lifts her arms, reaches down the length of her body — “I just need —”

He catches her hands, holds them. “A little extra assistance?” He doesn’t sound amused, really, but rather — she doesn’t know what it is. Something — it’s observational, yes, but also, maybe, almost gentle. Maybe a little disappointed, even — but hardly that. He hardly lets it show. He presses her hands into her breasts, and puts his hands on her hips, rubbing his thumbs against her. “But you will let me do this.”

“I —” She has half a mind to deny him; the idea of his fingers on her and in her with the unctuous nab is still a little repulsive, and a little humiliating, somehow. But it’s also something he wants that she can give, if she just bends a little. She takes a breath. “Yes,” she says. “Yes, alright.”

And the angle is different than either of the two previous times he’s done this, but he knows how to use his fingers just as well: he works his thumbs slowly along and inside her labia, and then turns one hand to slide two fingers into her, and presses the thumb of his other hand to her clit. It is strange, to feel the sensation of his fingers inside her with the nab, which she can feel, too, but it’s not  _ bad.  _ He doesn’t seem bothered, and his fingers — long, steady, solid — feel good. 

But it takes her a few minutes to relax again, takes effort and concentration to build back to the high-key tension that suspends her like a wire before orgasm. It is particularly because she is wrestling with a sense of failure — but he has the patience for it. 

He moves his fingers inside her at a steady, slow pace, with the curl that she likes, and circles his thumb against her clit, light and even until she begins to buck her hips, the muscles inside her contracting and then pushing; then he uses his thumb more firmly, until she tenses all the muscles of her legs and hips and tenses inside, too, and finally, with a cry that is not overly dramatic but is hard-earned, arches her spine for just a moment, and spasms briefly around his fingers. He doesn’t push her further: he draws his fingers out of her, lets her settle her hips back down where she’s comfortable, and then rests his hands on her waist.

Slowly, she opens her eyes to find him watching her. The strange, almost tender look is back, the same one he’d had when he bent over her face and brushed her bangs back from her forehead last night. He leans down and kisses the space between her breasts: softly, carefully. The feeling makes her lift her hands and touch his head.

He seems to take this as invitation, and he leans forward and kisses her mouth. It is another deep, confusing kiss: gentle and slow. She strokes her fingers through his hair as he kisses her. She does it from instinct, perhaps. The kiss goes on a great deal longer than make sense to her, and her mind begins to wander a little.

She does have something she still feels she needs to do.

“You next,” she moans into his mouth.

“Hm?” He does not really seem interested in hurrying things along.

She pulls her mouth away from him. “Your turn,” she says, curling her fingers in his hair.

“Yes,” he says. “I have a position I would like you to try.”

“Oh?”

He sits back, holds his hand out for her. “Sit up for me.”

She takes his hands and lets him help her up. There’s another one of the little pauses, when she's sitting: their bodies are close together, their faces are close together, and he moves his face against hers and kisses her — half kisses her, really. It’s a little lazy, and soft.

“Mm, that's nice,” she says, remembering that she is supposed to be showing him how much he is appreciated. She can use words for that.

“Is it?” He presses his mouth against hers again.

“Mm, yes,” she says as he pulls away. “But how do you want to do the rest of this?”

“Impatient,” he says, unsmiling but not unkind, and he kisses her again. “We will improve in this area.”

“Will we? But not tonight,” she says.

“No?”

“No.” But she the one who kisses him, this time. Then she says: “I want you. Let's try again. Whatever position you like.” And she kisses him again.

“So long as you are not on your knees,” he says against her mouth, dryly.

She pulls back from him. “You wouldn't make me —”

“No,” he says, clear and direct. And then, with a little sly humor: “I hardly intend to  _ make  _ you do anything, Miss Pryce.”

_ Miss Pryce.  _ It doesn't sting as badly as it could. A partnership isn't necessarily love, after all.

But it does stop her for a minute. The question comes back into his face, and to assuage it, or save herself from having to see it, or answer it, she kisses him again. When she pulls back, she says: “How do you want me?”

He gives her a brief, appraising glance. Probably her tactic with the kiss was not subtle.

But he only says: “Would you sit up at the top of the bed, please?”

They are perpendicular to the top of the bed. It's a large bed; he can lay on it in any direction and not touch the edges. She wiggles away from him, and scoots herself where he’s asked. He looks at her for a minute, then crawls to her. Strange, how he can make crawling look almost dignified.

And then he does something she doesn't expect. He pulls the extra pillows from around her, and piles them behind her. This requires a bit of moving on her part; he uses both precise words and clear cues from his hands to put her where he needs.

Finally, she is resting on a kind of makeshift bolster of pillows — it's lush and indulgent but it also, she realizes, seeing him kneeling beside her, an arrangement that puts her face at just the perfect height for him.

“How is this?” He asks it mildly enough.

“Good,” she says. “It's… very good. Do you want to… can we do the rest of it?”

“Yes.” And he swings himself over her, so that he is on his knees in front of her, one leg on either side of her, hips in front of her face. Cock in front of her face. He takes himself in his hand for a moment, then changes his mind and says: “I think it will work better if you do the rest,” he says.

He means, probably,  _ you're least likely to choke that way _ . That’s fine with her.

And he does seem to care if she’s comfortable. She appreciates that about him, too.

“I can do that,” she says, putting her hands on his hips.

She leans forward and kisses the point of his hip. Then she pulls back, leans to the other side and kisses him in the same way.

Then she kisses near the base of cock: first on one side, then the other. Then she nudges her face beneath the base of his cock and presses her mouth there, too: kisses him, licks him, opens her mouth against his skin and sucks half of him into her mouth. He is built like other men down here, too: soft and pliant except for what’s inside. She pulls back, tilts her head, sucks the other half of him into her mouth. This isn’t something she’s hugely enjoyed, ever, but it’s not something she’s minded, either. In most ways it’s easier than the rest; this never makes her gag. Some men like it more than others, and sometimes it gives her a break.

She finds she likes it a great deal with him, for her own reasons.

Then she she kisses the base of his cock again, and presses her tongue to it, and runs her tongue along the length of him, to the very tip, before slipping her lips down over the head of him. The head of his cock is a little wet from his own arousal, and her mouth is wet with spit, and her lips slides easily around him.

She ought, she thinks, to look up, maybe — try to check on him the way he checks on her, but he is still hard, which seems good enough. She closes her eyes and concentrates, instead, on how to make the kind of pressure he seems to need. She slides her mouth just a short way down his cock, wet lips gliding on his skin, and squeezes with her lips, sucks her cheeks in, and pulls back — and feels his fingers on her scalp, moving faintly through her hair. Just one hand, a gentle touch, hardly there at all. It sparks the breathless, tender current in her nerves anew. She opens her eyes and looks up; it’s hard to tell from here, and on his face in general, but she thinks — hopes — the expression he’s making has a sort of softness to it.

Her own face must have a question on it, because he runs his fingers through her hair again and says: “Good. This is good.” He sounds… encouraging, maybe? Reassuring.

And she likes when he compliments her. Praises her. She closes her eyes again and pushes her mouth further down his cock, feels the strange, distinct textures of stiffened tissues beneath delicate skin, rubs her tongue against him, and sucks on him gently — and then, feeling her strange hunger, less gently. His hand stays on her head, fingers resting softly on her scalp. This seems to be tolerable for him, so she goes on with it, moves her mouth up and down the first third of his cock, a little faster, a little hungrier, and then slower, sucking deeply because it feel good to her to do so — his breathing is not really changing, and he doesn’t say anything that helps her, but he isn’t telling her to stop, either.

And then one of the beads comes, again, and she very nearly misses it. Nearly, but not quite. It lands on the middle of her tongue, a little strange — thick, mineral — and she pulls back until her lips are just pressed to the tip of his cock, like a kiss. He knows what’s happened, too; it’s in a slight moment of breathlessness, a slight tightening of his fingers against her scalp. She presses her tongue to the roof of her mouth, lets the bead of whatever-it-is swirl through her mouth with her own spit, and then starts sucking again. She hopes he takes the point, too, which is:  _ I’m fine, you didn’t hurt me, I can keep going _ . He pulls his hand off her head, maybe a bad sign — then runs his fingers softly through her hair. She thinks he’s got the point.

Whether or not her going on is his preference is a little unclear, though. Truthfully, this is mostly for her own gratification. She likes the feel of him, and likes that he’s letting her go on — she hopes it’s pleasant for him, and she thinks the barometer in her mouth is reliable at least to how much he’s willing to tolerate her, but she has no real sense of whether or not he’s enjoying any of it. She pulls back again, and sucks the head of his cock, soft and needy, then pulls her mouth off of him altogether.

She needs a break, just a little one. She takes him in her hand, squeezes and pulls the way he’s shown her; while she does, she leans forward, presses her face into his body: the swath of almost smooth, almost soft skin low on his belly beside his hip. His fingers move through her hair again, soft. She breathes him in, kisses him, then pulls her head back and looks up.

The look on his face is a little closed-off. “We can stop,” he says, each word picked over carefully, none pronounced quite right.

“No,” she says, shaking her head, still moving her hand on him. “No, I want you to cum for me.”

She leans forward and takes the head of his cock, just the end, between her lips again — half kissing, half sucking — and he runs his fingers through her hair once more.

“We could — last night,” he says. She looks up again. He is frowning a little. It is possible that he is trying to avoid a repeat of their earlier fiasco, which is touching even if it is probably about his own comfort.

It is also possible that she isn’t doing this very well at all, and he is trying to be polite.

There’s a sudden, burning swath of anxious fire in her core, and then she stamps it down viciously. She likes his cock. She likes the taste and the smell of him. She likes sucking on him, and feeling the little details of him that are lost when she feels him inside her body. 

She decides he can be outright rude about it if she’s so bad he needs her to stop; otherwise, she is going to continue.

“No,” she says. “I’m alright.”

And takes him between her lips again, and begins to use her hand in time with his mouth, stroking and turning her wrist gently, pulling against him in time with the sucking of her mouth in a way that she hopes imitates the pleasure he must get from sliding himself in and out of her cunt.

She just has to be careful of the beads, when they come: has to figure out a way to time herself with them, to be ready for them. It takes a little experimentation — and it is truly good for her that he is so patient — but she finds a rhythm with them. She sucks at the head of his cock, and the place just below it that seems to be the source of most his pleasure, puts all the pressure on him she can, until one of the little beads swells from the tip of his cock and she can catch it on her tongue. Then she slides her lips back past the ridge of his head, to the tip of his cock, then pushes the blend of spit-and-liquid back onto him, rubs it down past his head, sometimes as far as halfway down his cock, to a place here her mouth meets her hand, if she’s feeling relaxed enough, which almost makes her gag but not quite, and then starts working her hand and mouth together again. Overall, she’s enjoying herself. And he isn’t  _ objecting. _

But it is work, and she can’t do it indefinitely; her jaw and her neck can’t sustain it forever, certainly. She slides her mouth to the very tip of him, holds him for a minute, then pulls back all the way and rests her forehead on his hip and uses just her hand, for a minute. He takes a quiet, even breath, then another, runs his fingers through her hair once, twice. Then she picks up her head, puts her hand on his hip, and starts again — or tries to.

He brushes his thumb against her forehead — gentle but firm, which makes her tilt her head back to look at him — and takes himself in his hand.

She looks at his face for a minute, watches his face, tries to gauge — he doesn’t look  _ upset _ .

But she doesn’t think finishing for himself is a sign of much enjoyment, either. She sits back and watches for a minute — but only a minute.

Then she reaches out with her hand, almost grabs him, stops short: she leaves her hand hovering in midair, where it is hard to miss her intent, but where he can still ignore her if he wants. She looks at his face. His hand has faltered a little, but not much. His face is a little curious, a little concentrated.

“Like yesterday,” she says, “but — can I —”

His hand stills. “You would like to do this together?”

“Please. Yes. Is that alright?”

He seems to hesitate, or think, for a moment, then he picks up her hand and brings it to his cock. “Yes,” he says, curling their fingers loosely together around himself in a way that is probably a little awkward for him, with her hand curving over top and his curled around beneath. “We will do this together.”

When he begins to move his hand again, guiding her along with him, it is clearly more than a little awkward. Her hand is too tight, first, and she can feel that is working to move her. She tries to loosen her fingers, her wrist, her arm, so she is as easy to move as a rag doll. “Is this alright?” she asks.

“Yes.” He sounds — maybe a little distracted?

“Are you sure? Is it —”

“It is —” he stops, then adjusts her hand around him again. “Would you like to do this for me?” he asks, his own curled around hers. It is clearly, very clearly, and strangely, an offer he is making for her benefit. There is something a little wry in it, but something deeply sincere, too: tolerance, and patience, and no small amount of generosity.

“Yes,” she answers. She is a little abashed, almost, as if she has somehow been found out, as if this desire of hers — to make him cum — were a secret. But she is hungry, too. She is eager to try, and wants very badly to succeed. She thinks it might feel like an achievement.

“We will do that, then,” he says, beginning to move her hand against him. “Do this, for me. Just like this.”

“Like —” she tries to focus, to build muscle memory, or a passable imitation, as he moves her hand up and down. The motion he wants from her doesn’t really feel how she expects: it is shallow, loose, fast, vastly more difficult to imitate than she would ever have guessed. Uncomfortable, really. Challenging, in a way. She’s trying to concentrate on the feel of him, but is worried, too, about a cramp in her elbow.

“Do you enjoy this?” he asks asks, voice cutting into her thoughts. And there is an odd tone — “Are you enjoying this?”

He is a _ ctually  _ asking.

Her answer matters. 

“Yes,” she says, trying to focus on the motion her hand should be making. “Yes —I want you cum for me. Tell me what you need. I want you to cum.”

“Do — just as you are —” he lets her hand go and she slows for a moment, then tries to get back to the right pace herself.

“Like this?” she asks, a little desperation, a little whine in her voice. “Is this what you need?”

“Yes — ”

And it does require much more focus and effort than she would have expected, moving her hand against him in the way he’s shown her, trying to be just so, to give him exactly what he needs — “Is this good?”

“Yes.”

Only it’s not, really. Not quite. She can tell from the stillness in his body, she thinks, from the weirdly passive look of not-quite-focus on his face. He needs something and she is not really —

“Talk,” he says, abruptly. “Tell me what you want.” His clearly trying to focus.

“I want — I want this —”

“Be specific.”

“I want —” it’s strange to try and speak to him and concentrate on moving her hand — her whole arm, really — the way she’s supposed to, but she tries. “I want you to cum. I want you cum on me. I want to feel your cum. I want —”

“What else?”

“I want you. I want to touch you. I want —” No, not that, she realizes. He needs — “I want to feel you — I want you to touch me, everywhere. I want to feel you inside me. I want you to fuck me. I want you to make me cry for you. I want you to make me cum. I want you. I want you —”

It’s enough. Maybe not on its own, but it’s enough to give him whatever help he needs to focus.She is fairly certain, when he cums, it’s as much from his own concentration as from anything she’s doing.

But it’s better than nothing.

And there’s something oddly reassuring, almost sentimental, about the warmth of his cum on her skin: it is, if nothing else, an indication that she was at least not entirely  _ unattractive,  _ not completely without an ability to play some role in his arousal. She lays back against pillow, feeling something strange and complicated. It’s a need for — she doesn’t know what, closeness, perhaps. In an odd way, the feeling of his ejaculate on her skin provides almost exactly that. 

She presses her palms to her chest, into his cum, and spreads it over her body: massages it into her neck, chest, belly, breasts, until it’s a thin film across her skin. It slides easily and clings to her, and provides a strange kind of comfort.

Thrawn himself watches this procedure with a kind of skeptical curiosity, but says nothing until she is finished. “Do you enjoy that?” he asks, sounding almost bemused.

She licks the residue of his cum off her palms. “Yes,” she says, without any embarrassment.

He sits back on his heels, face pensive. She turns her attention from her palms to him.  “Did you —” she starts, stops. She swallows against nothing, tries again: “Was I —” stops again. Steels herself once more and tries again: “That was alright for you?”

“Yes,” he says.

She is frowning. It is not the expression she wants to be making, is probably not attractive, probably not happy — but she doesn’t think that his  _ yes  _ is very complimentary. She purses her lips, twists them unhappily.

“You were fine,” he says, again. That is definitely meant to be reassuring.

“Was I?” she asks without thinking, tone honest and unselfconscious.

His face softens distinctly at that; the expression there is new and very attractive and makes Arihnda’s heart flutter. He rises off his heels and leans over her, strokes his fingers through her hair, cups the back of her head, says a gentle, syllabant word she doesn’t understand, and and kisses her. It is a very soft kiss, close-mouthed and warm.

After a tentative moment, she raises her hands to his face.

He takes his cue from this, too, and presses her down into the pillows, bracing himself on his hands. He moves his mouth to her neck. The drying film of his own ejaculate seems not to bother him, and he seems fascinated by her neck. He presses his mouth to the places where the complex apparatus that lets her breathe and swallow and speak can be felt through the skin, again and again: slowly, thoroughly, firmly. He kisses her neck until she begins to feel slow and stupid, and wraps her arms around his head.

Then he moves lower on her body. He kisses her chest, and her breasts, and trails kisses down her torso until she only has her palms on the top of his head. He pauses for a minute with his mouth low on her belly, bent like a supplicant in prayer, then sits back onto his heels and scans her face, pensive yet again.

He doesn’t study her for long. He swings off of her and lays on the mattress beside her. He is laying like he usually does after… whatever they do. He is flat on his back, with nothing beneath his head. His head is even with her hips, and his feet are almost at the end of the bed.

She curls onto her side, half-nested in the pillows, and looks at him. He seems... relaxed, maybe. Possibly this thing he does — not holding her, turning back to his own thoughts — isn't intended as a snub. Perhaps it's just how he’s comfortable. It doesn't exactly make her feel cared for, but that's fine. That's not the point, really.

The point is to give him the things he wants, so that he will give her the things she needs.

And she can certainly do better at giving him things he wants. Even this exercise had turned into one of taking, rather than giving — but perhaps she can work out something that accommodates them both.

Perhaps it quires a little more risk.

“May I teach you an idiomatic expression, Commander?” she asks. 

He tilts his head back to look at her, and quirks an eyebrow. She gets the impression that he finds her a little funny, or a little odd, generally, and is trying to be civilized about it. She thinks maybe she doesn't mind so much. Perhaps being a curiosity, an entertainment, is something she can give him. Perhaps that is something that he wants: a space where he is free to be amused.

“Certainly,” he says.

It's a gamble — a way of admitting, among other things, that realizes she is something of a trial. “I was thinking of ‘practice makes perfect.’”

He gives a single soft, sardonic snort. His mouth curves at the corners, too. It's a smile. Closed-mouthed, yes, and entirely at her expense, but not unpleasant, Arihnda thinks. And not unkind. It’s attractive, really.

And it’s an overall better reaction than she’d hoped for.

“I see you know it,” she says.

“I have heard it, yes,” he says.

Then he turns on his side, amusement fading. He lays his hand on her hip. His touch is casual, easy, proprietary. “We may practice as much as you like,” he says simply.

There is still a gentle curve to his mouth, but the soft, new look is on his face again, and it makes her heart go out of time.

Then she leans forward — hungry and soft and open — and kisses him.

She can hardly help herself.


	5. A Goal in Mind, Pt 1 of 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes when you cross a boundary, you find that life is easier on the other side. It's not devoid of problems, though. Now that Arihnda is back on her feet, more or less, she needs to start considering the problem of direction.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you think one of Thrawn's lines sounds startlingly like a familiar quote, you're not wrong. See endnotes.

_ Sentiment rules the world, and he who fails to take that into account can never hope to lead. _ — Napoleon Bonaparte

 

_ Never forget that no military leader has ever become great without audacity.  _ — Clausewitz

  
  
  
  
  


 

 

 

 

 

_ Please meet Technical Specialist Jakeeb at eleven. _

 

Thrawn’s message comes through just as she is settling into her workstation at Higher Skies. She doesn’t have to ask  _ where  _ this meeting should occur, but she is thrown by the  _ person  _ she is supposed to meet, and by the time. It was not, after all, what they had last discussed.

 

She assumes that it is a test of her ability to extend her trust to subordinates on the recommendation of her peers — or her partners. She intends to pass it. And she recognizes the name of the person he’s sending. But she feels entitled to needle the decision a little, first, as well.

 

_ Jakeeb?  _ She messages the name as its own question.

 

_ He is the best-equipped to explain the items,  _ Thrawn sends back. _ I will accompany him if you wish. Or, if you wish it, go in his stead. _

 

She does wish to see Thrawn, very much, now and at every other possible moment, but saying so feels a bit excessive — needy and childish. And she will see him later, anyway. Probably.

 

_ No, thank you. Tell Technical Specialist Jakeeb I will see him at eleven. _

 

Technical Specialist Jakeeb is already in the hotel room when she arrives. He’s a burly, slightly clumsy man with big hands and a friendly face and he reminds her instantly of her father. She boxes the thought neatly away as she considers their situation. “You’re Jakeeb?”

 

“Yes, ma’am.” He’s smiling at her with a bumbling awkwardness that makes her slightly wary until he holds out a broad hand and says: “It's a honor to meet you, ma’am. I'm not supposed to ask your name, but — we got a shipment of hyperdrive parts yesterday that I know for a fact supply has been dragging their feet on for a month — I can't tell you what that means for us. We're all very grateful, you know.” Then his smile falters. “Those of us who know, I mean. The Commander says you take your privacy very seriously.”

 

“I… I appreciate that, Specialist Jakeeb,” she says, putting on her good-but-not-best private sector manners — manners fit for her father’s old business peers on Lothal but perhaps not for Senators on Coruscant — and shaking his hand. She is a little concerned to be the subject of so much discussion amongst others, but it’s clear her identity has been protected — and she’s flattered that Thrawn has clearly made a point both of her value and her right to privacy. “I understand you have a custom communicator for me?”

 

“Yes ma’am. The Commander says I’m supposed to walk you through how it works.”

 

“I’d appreciate that, thank you,” she says.

 

His explanation starts a little simplistically. His approach is well-intentioned but not particularly helpful to Arihnda. She asks him some polite but direct questions designed to show her level of knowledge and he takes up the chance to explain his work in detail with the friendly enthusiasm of a person who truly loves their job.

 

“The Commander said you’d like this stuff. Said you were smart, too.” Jakeeb grins at her. “He tends to understate things.” It's said very casually, very off-the-cuff. It doesn't sound at all like the kind of smarmy, manipulative compliment she might get from Driller. It sounds like the sort of thing Bail Organa might say. It tells her a little more about how Thrawn chooses to present her to the people he’s chosen to trust, which is flattering. It tells her how he presents her to the people he's asking  _ her  _ to trust, which is charming.

 

And it tells her how he presents her to the people he's trusting her to handle well and treat correctly — which is something else entirely. He's put Jakeeb into her hands, in a sense, with this meeting. It’s an idea that coalesces in her mind very suddenly, like crystal jutting from rock.

 

She doesn't smile at Jakeeb but she doesn't scowl, either. Instead, blinking a little, she directs her attention to the exposed wiring of the comm. “It broadcasts three signals at once?”

 

Jakeeb’s smile had faltered a little when she'd left his compliment hanging, but her question brings it back full-force. “Exactly!” He rattles off a rather technical explanation that is almost, but not quite, over Arihnda’s head. It includes a lot of excited asides about frequency-hopping.

 

“You've tested it, I assume?” she says a little sharply.

 

He looks almost hurt. “Yeah — loads. I've been working on it for a long time. This is just my first chance to use it for something that matters, is all.” Arihnda only looks at him for a long minute. This seems to make him feel that he owes her a longer explanation. “He does that, the Commander. Finds opportunities for us to… grow, I guess. You know. Get better at things, learn, try stuff. It's one of the reasons I transferred.”

 

And there’s her opening. Thrawn had mentioned this about Jakeeb. Perhaps Thrawn sent Jakeeb just to let her ask this question, as much as any other reason. To let her probe the story for herself. “That's unusual, isn't it? Requesting a transfer?”

 

“Yeah. I didn't exactly… it was tricky. Senior Lieutenant Deyland — he's the first officer on the  _ Blood Crow  _ — helped me do it. He was on the  _ Blood Crow  _ with Captain Virgilio when Thrawn first came aboard. But then Captain Rossi —” Jakeeb breaks off awkwardly, like a schoolboy shuffling from foot to foot after a playground fight.

 

Arihnda is familiar with the precarious moment of hesitation — a Senator who doesn't want to say yes to her, an informant afraid to share. She knows how to seize the moment — she knows many ways to seize this kind of moment, in fact. Sometimes the best way is by making it safe to say no. “Are you not allowed to tell me?” She shapes her voice into something almost soothing. “I wouldn't want to put you in an awkward position — you're already doing a lot for me, just making these communicators.”

 

It does exactly what she hopes: reminds him why he's there, and what she's done for him — for the _Thunder Wasp_. “No, I'm sorry, ma'am,” Jakeeb says. “The Commander said I should answer all your questions, no matter what they were about.” Which is something she’ll ask Thrawn about later. “This one’s just…”

 

“It's a bit awkward,” she says for him, gently.

 

“Yes ma'am.” He looks quite somber. “Captain Virgilio was a good Captain. He didn't treat Thrawn any different than any other member of his crew. A little better, maybe. Most of us liked him, Thrawn, I mean, once we got to know him. It's hard to serve with him and not at least respect him. Virgilio liked him, I think. He let him pretty much do whatever he wanted outside of his assigned duties, really — mostly collecting Clone Wars tech. He liked trying to get it working again; he let me help sometimes. Didn't really need my help but I think it gave him a sense of what I could do. He likes to find that out about people. Anyway, I think someone was hoping Virgilio'd have it in for him — have it in for Thrawn. They were pretty disappointed, I guess, and Virgilio got disappeared pretty quietly and replaced by Captain Rossi.” Jakeeb pauses here, unhappy. “She did have it out for Thrawn. She wasn't a bad Captain, ma’am, I should say that, but she did have it out for Thrawn.”

 

Arihnda already knows the general story; she thinks she could even tell Jakeeb who exactly had ‘disappeared’ Virgilio. But Jakeeb’s story still adds useful depth. She listens attentively.

 

He continues: “I guess you know all about the court martial. I tried to offer testimony, so did Barlin and Layneo.”

 

And this surprises Arihnda a great deal: trying proactively to offer testimony of behalf of a court-martialed alien says more about how Thrawn’s subordinates felt than almost anything else Jakeeb might tell her. It tells her that they loved him.  _ Love _ him, rather, based on the thing Jakeeb’s story is ramping up to.

 

And Jakeeb continues, like he’s unburdening himself to a spiritual adviser: “Anyway, I guess you know how that turned out. But I was pretty upset about it — we all were, me and Layneo and Barlin. We volunteered for that mission with him, and everything he did was brilliant. Deyland was mad, too, but he kept his head down. Always keeps his head down, but he's a good guy. He tried to stick up for Thrawn as much as he could when Rossi came aboard, but I guess she had marching orders, and Deyland’s not one to throw away his career on principle. Anyway, we were all upset, and Deyland helped how he could. Layneo was pretty furious and Deyland got her moved fast — got her into an officer track at Royal, actually. She's due to graduate this month. Not exactly top of her class but she’ll move up. She's good in the field.” Which strikes Arihnda as exactly the kind of solution Thrawn himself might want for competent, passionate enlisted personnel who had become prohibitively unhappy in their jobs. It’s also something Deyland would have had to pull quite a few strings to achieve. She wonders why Thrawn didn't have Deyland try to move the  _ Thunder Wasp  _ up the lists. It's something else she’ll ask him about later. “Anyway,” Jakeeb continues, “Deyland kind of helped Barlin and me stay on the straight and narrow. When he heard Thrawn got command of his own ship, he worked it so we could be transferred there without…”

 

“Without obviously requesting to transfer from the command of one officer to another,” she supplies for him. “Which would have embarrassed everyone, accomplished nothing, and harmed everyone involved  _ except  _ for Rossi.” Then she adds, with a little humor: “I understand a few things about the Imperial Military, Specialist Jakeeb. How did he do it?”

 

Jakeeb looks a little relieved at having an audience who gets the basics. “I'm not entirely sure, to be honest. But I expect he called Commander Thrawn and the Commander figured out a plan. He’s good at that, you know. Barlin was up for a promotion and new orders anyway, and Thrawn must have arranged it on  _ his  _ end so he had just the right posting open, and Deyland arranged it on  _ his  _ end so Barlin’s name came up at the right time. Deyland’s quiet but he knows a lot of people. Benefit of knowing how to keep his nose clean, I think. As for me,” Jakeeb grins, “Deyland got me a new career track.” Which must have taken some doing, Arihnda thinks. She will  _ absolutely _ have to ask why Thrawn didn’t use Deyland to move the  _ Thunder Wasp _ up the repair lists. “Deyland and the Commander both saw I took a shine to the radio rigs in the old droids, and Thrawn put in a request for an additional comms technician. Deyland worked out the rest.”

 

All-in-all, it reminds her of the story Thrawn had told her about Tal Gimm. This meeting, then was not just a test of her willingness to trust a subordinate on his recommendation, but a chance to make a point about the responsibilities of leadership — and the proper way of fulfilling those responsibilities

 

She decides she’ll think about both  _ those _ points later.

 

“Well, Specialist,” she says pleasantly enough, “thank you for that.” She holds up her comm. “I trust Commander Thrawn already has his half of the pair?”

 

“Yes, ma’am.”

 

“Good. Let's give your design a practical test, shall we?”

 

The comms are easy enough to work. Jakeeb has even outfitted them with a neat little earpiece and microphone combination, almost like you’d find in a soldier’s helmet, which keeps at least half the conversation private.

 

Thrawn answers her signal promptly. “Miss Pryce. I trust you find Specialist Jakeeb’s work satisfactory?”

 

“Very satisfactory, commander,” she says. It's difficult not to purr into the receiver; there is something very pleasant, very  _ satisfying _ indeed, about having Thrawn’s voice fed directly into her ear, and the feeling spreads through her whole body. “He’s still here, in fact, in case something goes wrong.” And there’s something pleasant about that, too: knowing Jakeeb is here for her. That he's here to help her get everything she wants, even if he doesn't know entirely what those things are.

 

“Is he?” Thrawn asks lazily, voice low and resonant in her ear. “Please convey my thanks to him.”

 

“I will, Commander. I also have something I’d like to discuss with you in person, if you’ll be available this evening?” And saying  _ that _ in front of Jekeeb gives her a great deal of satisfaction, too, which she leaves largely unexamined.

 

“I believe I will still be available. Is there anything else you require now?”

 

“No, Commander,” she says, savoring the chance to tell him what to do — savoring especially the chance to do so in front of an audience. “That will be all, thank you.”

 

On her drive from the hotel to the Senate Building, she touches the comm, on and off, like a totem. Each time her fingers brush the sharp outline of the device in her jacket, she feels something that translates roughly into speech as  _ my partner _ . It's a good feeling, and she enjoys it a great deal.

 

She’s halfway from her the parking area to her usual caf dispenser, one hand absently pressed to her middle where she can feel the outline of the comm, when she hears a voice that is increasingly familiar.

 

“Arihnda! Did you get my note?”

 

Bail’s smile is as warm and bright as ever. He’s got a companion with him, this time, too: one of those gangly teens whose pieces all fit together poorly, but whose strangeness prefigures an eventual transformation into an attractive and elegant adulthood. This teen is a tall young woman who stoops her spine to appear shorter and hugs her stick-like arms to her thin middle, but who does it all with a natural grace that no amount of court training could equal. Her face is a charming, friendly jumble of warm, unevenly sized features, dominated by a wide mouth and a large nose. Her long hair is a light heather color, and tumbles over her shoulder in a loose braid. She's wearing a simple, modest dress that drapes elegantly and hides more than it reveals; it's not remotely related to Coruscanti fashion, but it is probably familiar and comfortable. The girl is probably new to Coruscant, and clinging to the remnants of home — or perhaps she is wearing it to represent her home for other reasons. Her demeanor speaks somewhat of the anxiety of being a new person in a new place but also, Arihnda thinks, of the tension between a natural youthful energy and the social expectations of a society that must praise tranquility. She is trying hard to behave correctly, Arihnda decides, and finding it challenging for a number of reasons.

 

Trying hard to behave correctly according the rules of her homeworld, that is. She is likely Gatalentan, Arihnda thinks. They grow tall, cultivate a willowy sort of meditative beauty, and have strangely-colored hair. And it would explain the bonbons.

 

“I did get your note, yes, Senator,” Arihnda says, gracefully diverting from her intended path. “I appreciated it very much. Thank you.”

 

“Glad to hear it. Have you met Amilyn?” He turns his body just slightly towards the girl, spreads his hands just a little.

 

“No, I'm afraid we’ve never been introduced. I'm Arihnda Pryce,” she says, inclining her head respectfully enough to be polite but no more — this teenage girl may be a person of status, but Bail didn't lead with that, and she  _ is _ just a teenage girl. Arihnda doesn't particularly care for young people. This girl is almost a tolerable age, but still a little younger than the people Arihnda is most comfortable interacting with.

 

“I’m Amilyn Holdo,” says the girl. She looks a little awkward for a second, then unfolds her arms from around her middle and holds both of her hands out, palms up, towards Arihnda. “At home we say hello by —”

 

“I understand perfectly,” says Arihnda, taking he cue and putting both her hands in Amilyn’s. Arihnda has learned to go along with all sorts of greeting rituals in her time on Coruscant. The key is always to listen carefully, watch closely, and follow the other person’s lead.

 

Amilyn squeezes Arihnda’s hands gently in her own and says something lyrical, poetic, and utterly incomprehensible. But Arihnda gets the gist: many cultures incorporate a statement of good intent, welcome, and harmony into a first hello. Arihnda also notices that the words  _ Amilyn _ and  _ Arihnda _ are worked into the greeting, but the words  _ Holdo _ and  _ Pryce _ are not, which she guesses indicates that Gatalentans prefer first names in social relations. When she finishes speaking, Amilyn squeezes Arihnda’s hands again — this probably not part of the greeting, Arihnda decides. This is probably the nervous tick of a young woman who is far from home and slightly lost, which Arihnda understands perfectly, as well.

 

Arihnda squeezes Amilyn’s hands back. “Thank you, Amilyn,” she says, slathering on the gracious good manners this time. “That was lovely.”

 

Amilyn smiles: it is lopsided and dazzling, and Arihnda wonders how long it will take this girl to learn that on Coruscant such assets are to be guarded and used only with careful intent. “Thank you,” says Amilyn, still beaming.

 

“If you don't mind my asking,” says Arihnda, “do we hold hands much longer?”

 

“Oh! Oh, I’m sorry,” says Amilyn, dropping Arihnda’s hand abruptly.

 

Yes, Arihnda decides, this girl is definitely lost, and a little overwhelmed. Coruscant is a great deal to take in, and she is probably here without her family — likely as a new member of the apprentice Senate, which would explain her being in Bail’s company.

 

“It's no trouble,” says Arihnda, folding her hands together politely in front of her middle, and considering the young woman. “You’re from Gatalenta, aren't you?”

 

“Oh! Yes.”

 

“Your people’s greeting is very beautiful. Is it poetry?” Gatalentans, Arihnda is given to understand, have a rather spectacular poetic tradition. It seems like a good guess.

 

“It is,” says Amilyn, brightening again. Yes, Arihnda thinks, this girl is a little at sea. Bail is a good man, fatherly, or avuncular maybe, but he's not quite what Amilyn needs. She's casting about for a mother, or a sister maybe — or maybe an aunt. Arihnda wonders if perhaps Bail has planned this, somehow, or a version of it, with the bonbons. Arihnda is not the mothering type, and she is too old to be Amilyn’s sister, but she thinks she might be able to pass for an aunt, if she needs to. The only question is why Bail might want her to — if that is indeed what he wants.

“Amilyn’s the one who chose those fantastic truffles,” says Bail, and Arihnda can see Amilyn’s smile brighten even further. “Did you get a chance to try them?”

 

Arihnda tenses. So, yes, Bail is clearly trying to build a bridge of some kind between herself and the young Miss Amilyn Holdo. “I'm afraid I haven't tried them yet, unfortunately,” she says, putting enough regret into her voice to sound sincere, but not so much to suggest she feels truly bad about it.

 

“Oh,” says Amilyn, a little disappointment coming through. “They last a few days, it's nothing to worry about.”

 

“Arihnda’s not much for sweetness,” says Bail, in his warm, slyly humorous way. “But, I know she’ll be sure to try them, and tell you what she thinks.” And that is said much more to Arihnda than it is to Amilyn. And Arihnda is not sure it is entirely about the bonbons. Or about Amilyn.

 

Arihnda thinks it might be about a data card full of citizen’s letters, still unread.

 

“Of course, Senator,” says Arihnda, inclining her head just a little. Then she decides to play a card of her own: “Will Amilyn be joining us for tea next week?”

 

And that makes Bail’s eyes sparkle in a rather curious way. “We’ll see,” he says, voice light and full of cheerful camaraderie.

 

“Well,” Arihnda says to Amilyn, “I look forward to seeing you again.” And to Bail: “Senator. Still the same time next week?”

 

“Still the same,” he says, smiling.

 

Arihnda bows to them each before she leaves.

 

The rest of her time at the senate is considerably less productive, yielding nothing new about Senator and Lady Hem, which is frustrating, but it gives her some time to consider Amilyn, and Bail, and the two other tasks before her for the day.

 

The first task before her is a return visit to Doctor Carteret. This is quick and easy. Doctor Carteret seems genuinely pleased by the turn in Arihnda’s mood, and the visit takes all of fifteen minutes. Afterward, Arihnda decides to test the new comm out on her own.

 

Thrawn answers promptly, yet again. “Miss Pryce. Do you require assistance?”

 

“No. I have some news. I’m guessing you’re alone?”

 

“No one will overhear. You have discovered something interesting about Mister MarDapp’s funders?”

 

“No. Better. Clean bill of health.”

 

“Indeed? Congratulations,” he says, sounding very dry.

 

“Congratulate me later. I just wanted you to know. Oh, but something interesting happened with Bail —” She cuts herself off there, changes tack. “Actually, that one I’ll tell you about in person.”

 

“You are on a first-name basis with Senator Organa?”

 

“I think perhaps I am. I’ll tell you about it when I see you. I’m heading back to the office, then I’ll head to Yinchom.” This is a kind of nothing comment, with no natural follow-up.

 

After a short silence, his voice comes to her ear again, vaguely bemused, not entirely unlike the night before: “Would you care to, I believe the expression is ‘keep me on the line’ while you narrate the rest of your activities?”

 

“I —” she doesn’t feel like it’s a slap exactly, but she does see that there is perhaps a bit of absurdity in trying to create this conversation. And she hadn’t been entirely aware of trying to create it, either. Or perhaps he only finds it funny in a charming kind of way, the same way he seems to find other things about her entertaining. She gambles on the latter, conservatively. “I’d say ‘keep you on the line’ but I’m sure you’re busy. Who did you learn that expression from, by the way?”

 

“I will tell you about it later,” he says. And he does sound entertained.

 

Thinking about Bail — thinking about telling Thrawn about Bail — gives her an idea. She picks up one thing extra, besides her gym bag and data pad, on her little pass by the office.

 

Arihnda has not been to Yinchom since the call from Ottlis. 

 

This is how she thinks of it: the call from Ottlis. Her life exists in two epochs: before the call, and after.

 

Coming into the dojo after the call is both more and less meaningful than she expects. Everything about Yinchom is the same. That is the most glaring, and glaringly unpleasant, thing of all. It is only Arihnda herself who is different. It seems to her, still, that there is something very unfair about the world’s refusal to change with her, to reflect externally the monumental upheaval in her life and within herself. But the world is intractable, and moving it is difficult. Even small victories are hard-won, and she has made an art of them.

 

And she is here to practice her art.

 

She goes through the motions of her regular routine: changes, stretches, starts a warm-up. Ottlis usually considers teaching Arihnda to be his own warm-up, and arrives for their session exactly on time, if not a little late.

 

But he’s early today.

 

He walks up behind her as she’s in the middle of a flow of three forms she particularly likes. “Arihnda. Do you have something for me?” He says it just a little lower than might be overheard, but not low enough to make the whispering itself conspicuous.

 

She ignores him until she’s finished with her last form. And she finishes properly: returning to a centered stance, and taking a deep, even breath, and exhaling it, before she even acknowledges his presence. This is all intentional: not to calm herself, but to force him to follow her timing. They both have every reason to make this look like a normal session to the rest of the dojo — but this is the last time Arihnda will have a training session with Ottlis Dos, and she’d like to make it special. She’d like to be in charge.

 

“Yes,” she says. She has the data card tucked into her wrist wrap. She has a habit of wrapping almost halfway up her arm, and there’s some wiggle room in them. She slips the card out and hands it to him.

 

“Thanks,” he mutters, clearly a little annoyed at having to wait.

 

“Oh, no trouble,” she says pleasantly. Brightly. She's scored her little victory. She’s used him to achieve it, even if he doesn't know it. “And you know, I was thinking if it’s alright with you, I’d just like to spar today.” She keeps her face as bright and open as she can while she says it, but she can feel an ugly mask of hate and rage fighting for space on her features.

 

Ottlis’ own face is hard to read. Mostly it’s neutral, professional, passive. But there are a few little twitches, around the mouth and eyes, that Arihnda thinks indicate a transition from surprise, to annoyance, to bitter amusement. Ottlis is taller and heavier than Arihnda, and has far more experience, both from training and from his everyday life. He clearly thinks, correctly, that she’s on a tear and out to hurt him. He clearly also thinks, incorrectly, that she doesn’t stand a chance. “Sure,” he says. “I’ll be back out in five.”

 

Five is closer to fifteen but Arihnda doesn’t care, particularly. She makes use of the time. Half of the trick of sparring, more than half, really, is mental readiness. And she makes herself very, very ready.

 

As she waits for Ottlis, she visualizes: strike, block, counter-strike. Feint, dodge, roll. One type of hit and another, one type of escape and another. She considers the sparring sessions she’s had with him in the past, and more than that, the sparring she’s watched him do with others. She visualizes block after block after block, visualizes herself absorbing blow after blow and withstanding it, waiting, patient, for her opening — visualizes taking her chance, when it comes, with speed and precision and fury. She visualizes fast attacks to put him off his balance. She plans out one sequence of moves, then another. She tries to picture the most unexpected responses she can, and to imagine responses to those.

 

That Ottlis is underestimating her on every possible level is as clear when he returns to the mat Arihnda has claimed for them as it is clear in retrospect when she examines the call to Ghadi’s office. He sees, she can tell, that she is angry, and now she doesn’t even bother to hide it.

 

What he clearly does not count on is how her anger makes her feel. Unlike most people, Arihnda does not become sloppy from rage. Arihnda does not become unfocused, or uncontrolled, when she is angry. For Arihnda, anger has always been a source of clarity: quick action, observation, orientation, and reaction. Her anger gives her a kind of permission to let loose qualities that she otherwise works to modulate. Her anger gives her permission to be herself.

 

And Arihnda, desiring Ottlis as badly she had almost from the first moment she met him, has never let him see her anger.

 

“Okay, Arihnda,” says Ottlis, stepping onto the mat, “do you have any particular ground rules in mind? Want to concentrate on a specific style? Stick to a two-minute round? What’re you thinking?” He sounds — no, not bored. But not like he’s taking this entirely seriously, either. Preemptively beleaguered, maybe.

 

“Three minute-rounds will be fine,” says Arihnda, with a special kind of poisoned pleasantness. “And I think we should stick to the basics, don’t you? I don’t get many chances to spar.”

 

“Right,” says Ottlis, who has generally dodged Arihnda’s requests for sparring in the past. “Sure.”

 

He’s come to the mat roughly in the middle of a round, giving them nearly five minutes, including the rest period, before they start. Ottlis does some casual, lazy stretching, swinging his arms in wide arcs, and ignores Arihnda as much as he can ignore any person who is standing within ten feet of him and waiting for an opportunity to hit him.

 

Arihnda breathes carefully, evenly, bouncing lightly from foot to foot to loosen up, and watches Ottlis as attentively as she has ever watched anyone in her life. She doesn't expect to last a full three minutes; fifteen seconds would be a long time, really. She knows his abilities, and her limits. Still, she expects to land at least one good hit, possibly two, as a message. And she intends to try to do even more than that, if she can. 

 

She decides that, as with Higher Skies generally, surprise will be her friend. Once Ottlis realizes that she is trying to hit him, to hurt him, at least once, in a real way, he’ll fight for real, too. She is fast, and determined, and strong — but she is also small, and inexperienced. She knows these things about herself. She would hardly be challenging Ottlis outside of the dojo; she is furious, but not suicidal. She only wants to show him that his ideas of her are wrong, and for that she only needs to land a couple of blows. Anything that puts her on her back foot might also take her down, and she intends to last at least ten seconds before someone — probably H’sishi, who has passed the mat twice already and is watching Arihnda with poorly-disguised curiosity — pulls them apart.

 

The warning bell comes. Ottlis steps to the middle of the mat, finally deigning to look at Arihnda. His mouth is set with grim annoyance. Arihnda steps to her own place and smiles sweetly — or tries to.

 

“Ready?” asks Ottlis. It almost sounds like a real question.

 

“Perfectly,” says Arihnda. She bows, just a little. It’s a little bit rigid.

 

Ottlis hardly bows at all.

 

They step apart.

 

The starting bell rings.

 

There is no polite feeling out of their opponent’s guard, tempo, rhythm. There is no careful moment of stepping around one another, throwing jabs and feints, getting familiar.

 

Arihnda strikes instantly, as hard as she can. Ottlis’ arrogance is one her real advantage, and she takes it for all it’s worth, whirling into a vicious roundhouse kick that strikes his chin before his guard is up and closes the distance between them. She is picturing the next move before her front foot even lands and she flows into it, hurling her momentum instantly into a spinning backfist that brings them closer still, and from there she throws herself into a combination of punches, flowing one into the next, fast and hard and sharp: hooks and hammerfists and uppercuts, hitting any piece of flesh she can touch.

 

But Ottlis is stronger, and more practiced, and he has done this for real more than once. 

 

Arihnda’s opening onslaught lasts almost the whole ten second she’d hoped for before Ottlis, who can withstand stronger opponents than Arihnda, comes under her guard and hurls her to the ground. The mat has some give in it, but is still hard, and when Arihnda’s body cracks against it harder than she’s ever hit anything in her life, it forces the air from her lungs and makes her see stars.

 

She is still angry, though, and she has enough training, and enough instinct, and enough adrenaline to keep fighting back. She curls her arms around her head just in time to block a brutal punch, and tries to twist into a hip escape. She almost manages, but Ottlis takes her by the arm, and does something that twists her shoulder and puts her facedown with his weight on top of her. It is not a move she knows; it is too fast for her to follow, and so violent it draws a sound out of her — as much of a sound as she can make, with her wind half-gone.

 

And that is when H’sishi steps in.

 

“Enough!” H’sishi’s syllabant voice takes on an unpleasant yowling quality when she is angry, and she has that tone now. Ottlis’ weight comes off of Arihnda so quickly that Arihnda is fairly sure H’sishi has yanked him bodily into the air; the woman is considerably stronger than most humans. 

 

Arihnda is facedown on the mat, breathing, shoulder burning in agony, when a pair of hands presses into her body, one on her hip and one on her ribs, and Juahir’s familiar voice comes hurried to her ear: “Arihnda, God, are you okay?”

 

Juahir helps her turn over, and sit up. “God, Arihnda,” she says again, “are you okay?”

 

Arihnda moves her working arm, rubs her face. Somewhere on the periphery of her awareness she can hear H’sishi, angry, and Ottlis, defensive, although she does not make out the words. “Yes. I’m fine. I just —”

 

“What  _ was  _ that? What the hell —”

 

“Juahir, can you help me get some ice, or something?”

 

“Right. Here, let me help you up.”

 

Juahir helps Arihnda to the changing room. Arihnda can walk just fine, although her back hurts terribly from the impact on the mat, and she has to go slowly and cradle her arm. Her shoulder screams with the jolt of every step, even the careful ones. And her neck and head are beginning to ache, as well.

 

Juahir leaves Arihnda sitting on a bench in the changing room, and comes back with a medkit. Upon examination it turns out that Arihnda’s shoulder is likely only sprained, but the ice helps, and so does a topical analgesic that Juahir has in her own duffle.

 

“So,” says Juahir, sitting on the bench after having checked over all of Arihnda’s blooming bruises and aching joints, “are you going to tell me what that was about?”

 

“No,” says Arihnda directly. “I don’t think I will.”

 

Juahir sits in silence for a moment, then says: “Okay. If you don’t want to, okay. But Arihnda —”

 

“Thanks for the ice, Juahir. If it’s alright with you, I think I’m just going to sit here for a minute, and then get going.”

 

Juahir is silent even longer in response to that. Then she says: “Are you coming home before midnight tonight?”

 

“I don’t think that’s any of your business, Juahir.”

 

“I’m just —”

 

“I appreciate your concern,” says Arihnda, rising abruptly, and reaching for her own bag. “But I don’t need your help.” 

 

Which is, of course, not exactly true. Trying to dress with one arm is a new experience for Arihnda, and frustrating, but she does her best, and does her best to ignore Juahir at the same time.

 

“Okay, you know what?” says Juahir abruptly, rising. “That’s fine. You want to be like that, fine. But at least —” She puts a hand on Arihnda’s back. “At least let me help with this, okay? I’ve had an injury or two training here, you know. I know what I’m doing.”

 

And Arihnda has half a mind to tell her to kriff off — but she finds she really does need the help.

 

After Juahir is finished helping her dress, Arihnda has to sit a minute. The pain in her body is worse. Juahir gets her a miniature hypo, the kind that pharmacies sell in packs of twelve, and it helps a little, but not enough to make moving easy. Juahir suggests Arihnda use a sling for the shoulder, and Arihnda acquiesces. 

 

Once Arihnda feels a little more collected, she announces her intention to leave. Juahir insists on carrying Arihnda’s duffle to her speeder for her; Arihnda is grateful for the help, and even manages to be almost gracious about it.

 

H’sishi nearly intercepts them on the way.

 

“Mistress Arihnda —”

 

“I’ve got it, H’sishi,” says Juahir quickly. “I’ll tell you about it later.” Which is exactly the kind of save Arihnda had once relied on Juahir to provide. It’s strange, feeling grateful to someone she hates so much.

 

Arihnda doesn’t see Ottlis anywhere on the rest of the walk to her speeder.

 

“You won't tell me where you're going, will you?” Juahir asks as Arihnda settles into the diver’s seat.

 

“No,” says Arihnda. “I’ll see you later, Juahir. Thanks for the help.”

 

With the adrenaline of her encounter with Ottlis wearing off and the painkiller doing its work, Arihnda finds herself ravenous. She's on the most direct route to the hotel, but decides to take a little detour. She stops in a diner in Gilroy plaza, and orders something plain. There's a weird flutter staring in her stomach. Part of it comes from the excitement, the thrill, she's felt about Thrawn all day. Part of it comes from anxiety about seeing him in her current state: her back and her shoulder don't exactly leave her feeling acrobatic.

 

She works down enough of a greenish, grassy-tasting gruel to take the edge off her hunger, and sips at a glass of water for a while, thinking.

 

Landing a few good hits on Ottlis had been worth it, she decides. She and Thrawn can figure out how to work around the rest of it. He’ll probably cooperate with her on it. That's something partners probably do. 

 

Besides, she has other things to share with him.

 

Even with her little detour, she is still over an hour early to the hotel. She takes the duffle in with her, and dumps it in the front room. She thinks, at first, that she’ll take a shower. There's something appealing about the idea of being fresh for an evening she hopes will be a little bit celebratory, injury notwithstanding. The idea dies as soon as she tries to take off the sling. Even with the hypo still doing its work — it shouldn’t wear off for at least another two hours — her shoulder hurts too badly.

 

She decides instead to lay on the bed and rest, instead. Then she has a second thought. She digs in the duffle, which has her workout things and a datapad, and retrieves the box of bonbons. 

 

She leaves them in the center of the table.

 

She takes the datapad with her to the bed, intending to read copies of Driller’s shadow accounting books, but it doesn’t work out.

 

Flattened in the aftermath of fading adrenaline, tired from a long week, fed, and filled with a strange kind of happy confidence that somehow or another, things will go well with her partner — filled with the strange kind of happy confidence that comes from having someone she can think of as a partner — Arihnda finds herself relaxing, and drifting, and —

 

She doesn’t realize she’s fallen asleep until she’s woken up. There is a sense of sound, a door, footsteps. The bed shifts. There is someone sitting beside her. The presence of a body that has fast become familiar.  A hand on her hip. A good smell in the air — soap, shampoo, faint sweat: pepper and cedar and salt.

 

She blinks, tries to focus. She sees a familiar face. “Oh,” she says. “Was I asleep?”

 

“You were.” He is holding something in his hand, holds it up for her to see. The box. “You intended a celebration of some kind?” His voice is soft, but his tone is a little amused.

 

“Oh, no. Yes, but — Bail sent those. I wanted to tell you about them.”

 

“Did you? I am here now.”

 

“Yes.” She tries to sit up, tries to use her sprained shoulder without thinking about it.

 

She does not make much progress sitting up.

 

“Crink,” she says simply.

 

“Indeed. I was going to ask about the sling. How did this happen?”

 

“Ottlis,” she says to the ceiling.

 

There is a very short silence, and then, very directly: “Explain.”

 

“I wanted a sparring match,” she says, a little taken aback. “I hit hard and he hit back. It’s not important, really.”

 

“No?”

 

“No, really — it’s just a sprain.”

 

“Just a sprain.”

 

“Yes. Well, it hurts, obviously. But it’s not a problem. He doesn’t know anything.”

 

There is another little silence in response to this, and then: “That was not the only reason I asked.”

 

“Wasn’t it?”

 

“No.”

 

And this time it Arihnda’s turn to be silent. 

 

Thrawn’s hand is still on her hip: warm, heavy, pleasant. His thumb is making a kind of metronomic arc there: an absent motion that seems to say  _ this space is mine.  _ That's pleasant, too. The silence is pleasant in a way, as well. It can’t go on forever, and she does have things she wants to talk about, but for the moment it’s all… Lovely, she thinks. Comfortable. Easy.  _ Partners.  _ She feels as though they’ve crossed a threshold; passed through a doorway. Whatever doorway it was, she’s much happier on this side of it.

 

Eventually, she says: “I also had an interesting conversation with Jakeeb.”

 

“Did you?”

 

“Yes. I wanted to ask you about Nels Deyland.”

 

“Ah.” That tone is… she doesn't know. There is a little something in it that indicates expectations met, something else that indicates, perhaps… not humor, but a cousin of it, maybe.

 

She decides to pry there, to ease her own way into the topic. “Is that what you thought I’d want to talk about?”

 

“I thought you might.”

 

“It wasn't why you sent Jakeeb? To tell me about him?”

 

“Not specifically.”

 

“But you do know what I'm going to ask?”

 

“You wish to know why I did not use my connection with Lieutenant Deyland to change the  _ Thunder Wasp _ ’s standing on the repair lists.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“You should recall that it was you yourself who brought that problem to my attention. Before you corrected my perception, I believed that the repair lists reflected military priorities.”

 

“Yes,” she says slowly. The past six days — a strange six days — have made it difficult for her to believe that he could ever be so wrong about anything. But he is wrong, sometimes. He misunderstands, misinterprets, misapprehends. He is still, fundamentally, an outsider in her empire. It makes him vulnerable. To court martial, rumor, harm. And she can help him with those things. And the more power she has, the more helpful she will be. Still, he hadn't taken her up on the offer, until she’d gone ahead and started working anyway, and — “but after I… corrected your perception? Why not use him then?”

 

His thumb stills. His hand feels heavier against her. “Are so you sure that I was not going to?”

 

“I —”

 

“I intended to continue experimenting with you sexually, and I was of course happy to offer my advice on your plans and aspirations, but it was you who moved ahead on both the  _ Thunder Wasp _ ’s repairs and the investigation of Higher Skies, both in a way and at a speed that I admit I did not entirely expect.”

 

_ Experimenting with you sexually _ is quite the phrase, and it lands heavy against her newfound confidence in their — whatever-this-is. Partnership. Arihnda needs a moment to absorb it. She needs a minute to absorb, too, the fact their perceptions of their mutual plans had been so different. Finally she says: “So I got the drop on you, so to speak?”

 

“So to speak, yes.”

 

“But you didn't try to stop me.”

 

“Disrupting an ally while they are choosing to assist you is perhaps less dangerous than disrupting an enemy while they are committing an error, but I believe it to be no less foolish.”

 

“Oh,” she says.

 

“This is not a complaint. I believe it is in my interest to have two persons who might help me in such matters, rather than relying on Lieutenant Deyland for everything.”

 

“Yes,” she agrees, “I suppose it is.” Against her hip, his thumb has started moving again: it traces a small circle, intimate and familiar. It is a motion that indicates not just a freedom to touch her body as he pleases, but perhaps a genuine enjoyment in doing so for its own sake. It's very pleasant — but she is still thinking about everything she has heard from Jakeeb. “You seem to have uses for everyone. Plans.”

 

“You are referring to Jakeeb, Barlin, and Layneo?”

 

“Yes. Well, not just them. I'm wondering if you… I know you see a use for me. We’ve discussed that. But I wonder if you don't have a plan for me.”

 

He raises an eyebrow. “Perhaps I am only curious to see what you will accomplish for yourself.”

 

Which might be better, or might be worse. Or might be a lie. She tables it for later, to be addressed as needed. If needed.

 

“About, ah,  _ experimenting _ with me — actually, do you have to call it that?”

 

Nothing overt happens on his face, but his thumb stills again. After a moment he says, quite carefully: “It was not meant to be offensive.”

 

And —  _ oh _ — maybe that’s uncertainty. He is still, although he's very good at it, learning things about basic. New idioms. Implications. Connotations. Perhaps it genuinely frustrates him, being misunderstood. Finding himself trapped in the cracks between a first language and a second. Third language, actually, in his case, she recalls, and likely leaned off the second — so much the more difficult. And she can almost see how it could be inoffensive, what he’d said. Charming, even. They are, after all, still learning how to make this work. Maybe it wasn't intentionally rude, or even careless. Maybe much of what looks like rudeness from him is just… lost in translation.

 

“I — well, I don't know if I would call it offensive, exactly,” she says delicately, “but it is a little…” she nearly says dehumanizing, and then stops herself. He isn't human, after all. “It's…  _ depersonalizing _ ,” she says. And then she adds: “It makes me sound like a lab animal.”

 

“Ah,” he says. “That was not my intent.”

 

“It's… I see that. It's alright, just… I'd like if you said something different.”

 

Another momentary pause. His thumb takes up its path again. “What would you prefer I said?”

 

For which she does not have a ready answer. “I… Do you want to be inside me?”

 

He raises an eyebrow. “That is not more vulgar?”

 

“Well — I don't know that I care about vulgar, so much. Just… do you want to?”

 

“Yes.” Maybe that tone is indulgence, of a kind.

 

“Because you think I'm attractive,” she specifies, “not just convenient. That's what I'd prefer to hear. Tell me that. Tell me you enjoy me. And that you want me. And want to be inside me.”

 

In a very flat, dry tone, but with a very slight curl in the corner of his mouth, he says: “I enjoy you, Miss Pryce.” And then, less flat but still quite dry, he adds: “Is that better?”

 

“I think you could say it a little more nicely.” She’s balanced delicately somewhere between sincere hurt and dry humor.

 

“Do you?” He works his fingers up beneath the edge of her shirt, and then slides his hand flat against her midriff. “I enjoy the way your body feels.” He rubs his thumb against her bare skin. It makes her catch her breath. “I enjoy the way your body responds to me.” He slides his hand up further, under her own hand, lying limp against her middle where the sling has put it, and cups one of her breasts. She takes a slow breath. “I would like to continue  _ exploring  _ the range of responses you provide to me.” He moves his thumb against her there, too, gently, and she makes a soft little sound in reply. “Exactly like that,” he says, mouth curving thinly. “Or we can call it practicing, if you prefer,” he adds. “Is that more the sort of statement you had in mind?”

 

“Yes,” she manages.

 

He sobers a little. “Indeed. Still, I think this —” he makes a small movement with his head that seems to indicate her shoulder — “might limit the possibilities for the evening.”

 

“I thought we might work around it,” she says, sounding a little concerned, but a little hopeful, too.

 

“Oh? That is ambitious of you.”

 

“Is it? I thought you would —” and she stops.  _ Be gentle with me  _ is what she almost says. She stops primarily because she herself is not sure how she feels about her sudden hunger for softness. “I thought you would know what to do,” she corrects herself.

 

“A flattering vote of confidence, no doubt.” He withdraws his hand from under her shirt, and presses his fingers carefully into her shoulder: precise, probing. It hurts more than she would like to admit, and she tries very hard to hide it. He frowns. “But perhaps it would be better to wait until you are healed.” Then he adds: “I do not find pain particularly appealing, myself.”

 

“No,” she says softly, “I know. But I was looking forward to this.”

 

“Were you?”

 

“Yes. Very much,” she says, sharing the whole and simple truth. That feels good to do, too: telling the truth about something easily and without calculation. “Very much,” she repeats. “I’ve missed having you inside me.”

 

And  _ that  _ earns a very egotistical curl of his mouth, indeed. “Have you? I should hate to disappoint.”

 

“I hardly think you could,” she says. “You perform very well.”

 

His mouth curves a little more. “Indeed I do.” He returns his attention to her shoulder again, for a moment, frowning. “All the same —”

 

“It's alright,” she says, reaching over to wrap her hand around his forearm. “Really.”

 

“Miss Pryce —”

 

“Really, it is.” And then she decides to say it: “I trust you to be gentle with me.”

 

He raises an eyebrow. “I did not think that was your preference.”

 

“No, I didn't either. But maybe — maybe I can explore it a little.” No answer. “And practice some patience, too, while we’re at it.”

 

He only looks pensive for a minute, before saying: “Perhaps. We shall see.” Then he holds up the box again. “Would you like to tell me about this now?” He asks it quite mildly.

 

“Can we talk about it after? I like talking after,” she says, her thumb arcing absently against his arm.

 

“I had noticed. Pleasure makes you garrulous.” 

 

She likes the sound of that. Pleasure, not sex. Not fucking. Not cumming. Pleasure. It sounds good, just like  _ practicing  _ and  _ exploring _ sound good. But mostly she is curious about — “Garrulous?” 

 

“From Captain Cheno,” he says, having caught this theme in her questions. “I believe he found it amusing to test my vocabulary.” 

 

“Oh? I should send him a thank-you note.” She's started rubbing her whole hand against his arm, absently, lightly, as much because it feels good to her to do it as to have any effect on him. Although it  _ does _ have an effect on him, apparently. He looks down at his arm, where her hand is moving, and answers a little slowly.

 

“Should you?” 

 

“Yes. I find your vocabulary amusing, too.” 

 

“Then you should also thank Vanto.” 

 

“Yes, my thanks to Vanto, too. Am I going to meet him, ever?”

 

“Perhaps.” He leans forward a little, sets the box on the little bedside table, and covers her hand with his own. When he speaks, his voice is very soft. He is still leaning over her a little. “Would you like to discuss my language tutors, or go exploring?”

 

And she likes the sound of that very much — both the offer and the euphemism. “Exploring, please,” she says.

 

“Exploring,” he repeats gently. “I thought as much.”

 

He pauses there, hanging over her. Watching her face, she thinks. Then he moves: puts one hand by her head to brace himself, puts the other back on her hip, leans close, kisses her. It’s a good kiss, she thinks, based on her limited experience of being kissed, and even more limited experience of enjoying any kisses at all. It’s pleasant: steady, warm, careful. She buries her free hand in his hair, and does her best to encourage him to kiss her a bit longer than he otherwise might.

 

He pulls away from her mouth eventually, faster than she would like, and moves to her neck.

 

“That’s nice,” she says thickly. Her hand is still in his hair. She says it mostly because she wants him to know, and perhaps a little because she hopes he will do things more, or for longer, if she says she likes them.

 

He makes a low sound that is probably assent. He reaches the top of her chest — what he can reach above the collar of her shirt — pulls back to look at her. “Exploring,” he says a little slowly. “What shall we explore, Miss Pryce?” 

 

“I’m sure we’ll figure something out, Commander,” she murmurs. “Together. Would you help me up? And out of these clothes.”

 

“Of course.”

 

It’s a delicate operation, with her shoulder throbbing in protest every time she moves it wrong, or any time he touches it wrong. Once she hisses a little sharply, tone a little high, and he stops: one of his checks. She tells him it’s nothing, but he takes an extra moment anyway: runs a finger softly over the place that hurts, and drops a kiss there, feather-light. It makes her breath catch, which might have been the cause for another strange check the day before last, but now earns her another kiss, planted a little carelessly against her mouth.

 

From somewhere deep in herself that she still isn’t quite familiar with, she says: “Oh. That’s nice. Thank you.” It’s the last part that’s most strange, but saying it feels natural, and it’s out of her mouth before she can think it over.

 

He looks at her with a new sort of interest. “My pleasure,” he says after a moment, a little wryly, but a little gently, too. “Would you like me to do it again?”

 

“Yes, please.”

 

And he does, which she thanks him for as well. He kisses her a little more fully after that. Neither of them seems to mind the distraction.

 

Eventually he has her out of her clothes. He stands before her, looks her up and down. She is holding her arm carefully against herself.

 

“You said you thought you would enjoy being naked, when I was not. Do you?”

 

“Yes. It makes me feel safe, I think.” 

 

“Does it? How interesting.”

 

And she really can’t tell if that’s sarcastic or not, but he puts a hand on her waist and draws her close, runs a hand through her hair, and kisses her, and she finds it hardly matters. This goes on for a little while: Arihnda cradling her arm and Thrawn cradling her. 

 

He seems to enjoy kissing as an end in itself, which is not something she’s accustomed to in men. She finds she doesn’t mind that, either, not any more than she minds being kissed by him.

 

Eventually he moves his head back enough to look at her face. “I think we will practice patience, Miss Pryce. What do you say?”

 

“Certainly, Commander,” she murmurs, almost sleepy, eyes still closed. 

 

And maybe he finds that charming, the way she sounds, and the way she looks, because he plants another lazy half-kiss on the side of her mouth. Then he says: “But it will be a little different from last time, I think.”

 

This wakes her up a little, makes her open her eyes. “What do you have in mind?”

 

“You managed to get on the bed yourself, before. I trust you can manage again.”

 

“I — yes, I think so. How do you want me?”

 

“However you are comfortable.” He takes his hand from her waist, and runs a finger along her collarbone, just close to the places that hurt. “Whatever accommodates this.”

 

Which she can do, or try to do. She leaves him, and he takes the opportunity to undress — or starts to.

 

“Wait,” she says. “If we’re going to —” she turns around, and finds him standing with his hands on his belt, looking at her attentively. He looks at most things attentively, but she likes it best when he’s focused on her. “If we’re going — can you help with the sheets?”

 

And he doesn’t need to bother hiding his amusement now but he does anyway, which she finds quite touching. His mouth twitches, and his brows almost rise, but only for a short moment, and he says: “Certainly.”

 

She can’t help with the sheets at all, this time, but there is something very enjoyable, the pain in her shoulder notwithstanding, about watching him move around the bed and pull the covers down the way she likes, because she’s asked him to.  The sense of safety, or whatever it is, that she gets from being naked while he is still in uniform only heightens the effect.

 

“Is this satisfactory?” he asks.

 

He is standing across the bed from her. The comforter and the sheets are folded over to the foot of the bed quite neatly — much more neatly than she would have been able to manage on her own, even with two arms — and he is looking at her with a mild and vaguely wry expression that she thinks looks like indulgence. She likes it very much.

 

“It's — yes, perfect,” she says.

 

She expects him to proceed immediately with the business of undressing, which had been his task before she diverted him, but instead he stays and watches her as she tries to get onto the bed.

 

It's more difficult without the sling, and she struggles. The bed is too high for her to comfortably swing herself up on one leg and walk forward on her knees. Instead, she tries turning around and wiggling onto it, seated. It works well enough for her, but apparently not well enough for her audience. The bed shifts behind her, and —

 

“Perhaps I should assist,” he says in her ear. She turns as much as she can. He is kneeling, fully clothed, with even his boots still on. He puts a hand on her back. “May I?”

 

“Ah — certainly.”

 

“Thank you. Hold your arm for me, if you would.” And then he executes an interesting maneuver: he leans across her, sliding one arm around her back, and wrapping the other over and around her thighs. He turns his face to hers, her close. “Shall we?”

 

And she doesn't quite know what to expect, but she says: “Of course.”

 

He pulls her close against him, and up, and levers her back onto the bed. And it's lovely, really: being bare, and wrapped up in him, while he is so put together — There must be something on her face that shows it, because he holds her a little longer than he needs to when he's put her down on the bed, peering curiously at her face as he does.

 

“I think I am beginning to see what you enjoy so much about this arrangement of our dress,” he says dryly.

 

“Are you?”

 

“Yes,” he says. And then he says, a little contemplatively: “I think it is not such an uncommon fantasy, and perhaps one you need particularly. We will explore it a little more, I think.”

 

“Will we?”

 

“Yes. But not tonight.”

 

And then he does undress: leaves her on the bed, trails his fingers across her as he goes, peels off his uniform precisely, unhurried, watching her. Then he joins her on the bed again, crawls to her, kneels beside her. Doesn’t touch her.

 

“What would you like to do?” she asks.

 

“I am deciding.” Then he touches her, trails a finger between her breasts, down to where her hands are folded softly on her belly. “I am deciding how to begin,” he clarifies. Then he turns his attention to her shoulder again. “Do you think you can put your arms by your sides, or will that hurt?”

 

“I think I can —” It does hurt a little. Everything with her shoulder hurts a little. But it doesn’t hurt badly enough to stop her, and he helps, long fingers stroking softly over the smooth skin of her arms until she is flat, slack, pliant. Her arms are loosely angled out from her sides, and her palms are turned upward, hands slightly open, like statues of saints from worlds with old religions: at once passive and active, at once ready to give and to receive.

 

“Close your eyes.” He says it very calmly.  There is neither tease nor titillation in it.

 

She complies.

 

He strokes the skin of her neck, chest, breasts, belly. She thinks his interest is a little different than the interest most men have in these places. She thinks it’s not just that they are soft, or  _ pleasant to the touch,  _ as he has said. She thinks it is specifically because they are so vulnerable that he likes them. The thought, more feeling than idea, arises partly from the way he speaks and behaves about her hurts — dislikes the ones he finds, dislikes particularly the ones he makes, even by accident — and partly from the way the action of his hands is as soft and delicate as the places he chooses to touch. It is another half-completed idea about him, strange and inarticulate, rising out of many little cues. He doesn’t like to hurt, but for some reason of his own he likes to be exceedingly gentle with the places that could be most easily hurt, and she thinks the two things are bound up together in a way she doesn’t fully understand.

 

The way he touches her now is both like and unlike the way touched her breasts the night before, both like and unlike the way he ran his palm along her two nights before that. He moves his fingers over her slowly, steadily, until her breathing moves past sighs and into a deep, steady rhythm, and her body feels slack, unmoored, undefined: half woman, half mist. He seems to like her like this: relaxed almost into slumber, yielding and soft, open to him completely. 

 

“Look at me.” And that is said very calmly, very evenly, as well.

 

She opens her eyes slowly, with false starts, heavy lids fighting her intent with halting flutters, and focuses just as slowly on his face, which has a quiet, observant expression. After a minute watching her face, finding whatever he’s looking for — she still isn’t sure — he moves: lifts her legs holds them straight in the air together, and, straddles the bed below her hips with his thighs wide, legs bent at the knees, and rests her legs against his shoulders. He is still watching her.

 

Holding her legs in place, he passes his free hand behind her, and brushes two fingers lightly along the length of her cunt. It is almost a caress: his fingertips trailing gently against the soft skin of her outer labia, just avoiding the open wetness of her. Then he tests how slick she is, and slides one finger carefully inside. She knows this part, she thinks. She likes it. She starts to let her eyes drift closed.

 

“Look at me,” he says again.

 

Her eyes flutter open again. There isn’t anything changed in his expression. He moves his finger in her again, gently — but it feels, suddenly, completely different. Looking at him, seeing him looking at her, makes it different. Something tenses inside of her — not musculature, something else, deeper in her chest, locking down against… something, she isn’t sure what. It’s like a sense of anxiety. His finger keeps moving inside her, gentle, soft — 

 

She wants to enjoy that, the feeling of his touch. Wants to savor it without distraction. Wants to be aware of nothing else. She tries to close her eyes again.

 

“Look at me.” This is said very softly indeed. 

 

He stops moving his finger, but leaves it inside of her. Most of the strange, mist-like relaxation is gone from her body. “I don’t —” she starts, swallows.  _ I don’t think I can  _ seems like such a horrible thing to say, especially at this moment, especially to him. She is really very, very fond of his face, but —

 

“We will go slower,” he says, as if catching the gist of the unsaid things. “But you will look at me.”

 

She nods. “Yes,” she says, a little shakily.

 

He pulls his finger out of her, carefully, and she gives a whimper of protest in spite of herself. He raises an eyebrow, but goes on with — whatever his plan is.

 

Going slower seems to mean touching two fingers to her outer labia again, stroking the length of them, feather-light, while she holds his gaze. It’s more difficult to do than she would like, looking at him, but his intuition was right: it is at least possible when he is only touching the dry, protective places of her body, the parts that cover and conceal and guard. And as he goes on with it — steadily, patiently — she finds herself relaxing again, little by little.

 

Looking at him, watching him watch her while he touches her, becomes easier, too. She can feel her face relaxing along with the rest of her body. Her head lolls to the side and eyelids grow heavy, but she is still watching him. Something about this, whatever it is about looking and being looked at in return, as anxiety-inducing as it is, makes his touch so much the more arousing, and as her face begins to slacken, he takes it as a kind of cue, and slides his fingers softly over the ridges of her outer labia and into the place where she is wet and open. It makes her tense a little against him, but he moves his fingers carefully here, too, on either side of her clit, until she relaxes again — and then he keeps touching her there, until she is almost as slack as she was when he lifted her legs.

 

Then he slides his finger inside of her again, and she loses the relaxed feeling, tenses, bites her lip, takes a sharp sort of breath — but she keeps looking at him.

 

“Good?” he asks.

 

She gives a high, breathy kind of moan in response. It is not so much from pleasure, although she does feel good, as is it from the difficulty of speaking while trying to feel him and watch him at the same time.

 

“Breathe,” he says.

 

She tries to, controlled and steady. She keeps looking at him, though it is much harder now. Slowly, he begins to move his finger inside of her. His fingers are slim and graceful and her cunt is soft and slick around him; he moves easily, and his touch teases and soothes, agitates and pacifies, at the same time. 

 

But she still feels tense, from the stress of seeing herself watched.

 

It’s not a complaint about him, she doesn’t think. His face is beautiful to look at: strange and somber and curious and attentive.

 

But watching and being watched, looking and being looked at, seeing and being seen — a strange and awful loop of awareness of other inviting awareness of self folding back onto awareness of other and then awareness of self again — makes this feel much closer and more revealing than anything else they have done. It makes her feel split open and stripped, like wild game. 

 

But it doesn’t hurt, exactly.

 

The combination of things, the strange openness of watching him, the teasing pleasure of his finger inside her, which is so good she will start whining from it if it goes on much longer, the much simpler and in some ways more satisfying pleasure of his body against her legs, of his body close to hers, of his attention, all together makes her her feel vulnerable, but strangely tender, too. And looking at him she wants to be even closer, as if he were too far away, as if — 

 

The horrible vertigo rushes up in her, then: a towering surge of it, from the deep core of her feelings, and with it something else wells up, almost wells out of her, a wave of something aching —

 

She shuts her eyes, inhaling sharply. 

 

He stops, finger as deep inside her as it will go, and there is a moment of silence. Then, very gently: “Can you open your eyes for me?”

 

She whimpers, a sound that means either  _ no  _ or  _ I don’t know,  _ and breathes against the upwelling of aching sentiment inside herself.

 

And, just as gently: “Would you like me to stop?”

 

She shakes her head. Then, with a little difficulty, she says: “I think I need to keep my eyes closed.”

 

“Yes.” The tone is very carefully neutral.

 

She says: “And I just need — just a minute.”

 

“Yes.” Neutral, again.

 

She takes another breath. The upwelling, the whatever-it-was, is subsiding, and even with her legs propped against him and his finger inside her cunt, she has the strange feeling of distance, again, which she does not like at all. 

 

But she doesn’t want to open her eyes, either. 

 

Instead she says, casting about for a solution as she speaks, reaching for him as she speaks: “And I’d like — do you think — can you hold my hand, please?”

 

“Yes.” And that is said very softly indeed, and something about the tone of it releases the tension in her core. He draws his finger out of her, moves her legs from one shoulder to the other, changes the hand he is using to hold her ankles, and takes her hand.

 

She squeezes his hand, and takes a deep breath, and she feels his shoulder and neck shift against her legs. Feels him turn his head and press a kiss against the small protruding bone of her ankle.

 

“Thank you,” she murmurs, squeezing his hand again.

 

He seems to like that, or at least to understand. He leaves his face pressed into her leg, lips parted, soft breath moving over her skin.

 

“Do you think we can start again?” She says after a short moment. “I mean — with your fingers. But do you think you can keep holding my hand?” And she isn’t sure herself, when she asks that, if it’s for his benefit or hers.

 

She thinks maybe she feels his mouth curve against her skin before he answers: “I suppose we might try.”

 

“Do you mind if I move my legs?”

 

“No. Are you uncomfortable?”

 

“No, just — I don’t know if I can hold them up like this without your help, is all.”

 

And that gets a soft sound out of him that might be a cousin of a laugh. “Please move your legs wherever you desire, Miss Pryce,” he says dryly.

 

She props her feet on his chest, lazy and comfortable, while he moves his fingers against her and inside of her again. He plays with her a little casually this time, though no less carefully, and after a minute she finds herself opening her eyes again. There’s a sense of… fun, maybe, to what he’s doing now, and she finds that watching him is easier. And the way he is watching her in return is a little different, too: a little more relaxed.

 

But he is still holding her hand.

 

“Do you think you can use two fingers, this time?” she asks after a minute. Even to herself she sounds strangely girlish and hopeful.

 

“Certainly,” he says. She thinks it sounds surprisingly soft.

 

Two slide in as easily as one, but feel a great deal better. He uses a little downward pressure, this time, which is different, but not remotely unpleasant, and eventually she is sighing from it, and rubbing one of her feet lazily along his chest, which doesn’t seem to bother him. Then her sighs turn a little high pitched, and he changes the angle of his fingers — a deft turn of his flexible wrist — and puts his thumb against her clit. He works against her inside and out while she closes her eyes, lets her head roll back, and squeezes his hand. He circles her clit with his thumb until she is moving her hips and whining, hungry and helpless and stupid. He works her right up to the edge, and stops, and waits until she opens her eyes again.

 

“Shall I continue?” he asks, brow arching.

 

She blinks a few times, taken aback. Then: “Yes.”

 

“Ask nicely.”

 

“Would, you please?”

 

“Please what?”

 

She opens her mouth once, silently, closes it again. Her hand is limp in his. Then she has an idea, maybe, a notion, that explains away her confusion: whatever serious thing he had wanted to do had not worked, so, she thinks, he has decided to play with her instead.

 

She finds she doesn’t dislike the idea at all. And even if she did mind, she supposes trying to give him something he seems to want is the very least she can do.

 

She squeezes his hand again. “Will you please make me cum?”

 

“Be specific.” 

 

And that  _ is  _ pushing it, she thinks — but perhaps not too far. “Will you please make me cum with your fingers?”

 

“Certainly.” And he does: precisely, confidently, effectively.

 

She bucks a little as she cums, and the motion carries all the way up her back; when she cries out, it is partly from a pain in her shoulder, but that is only a very small part. Like yesterday, he stops the instant she spasms against him. Unlike yesterday, he runs his fingers lightly against the puffy ridges of her outer labia, soothing and gentle.

 

“Do you need a minute?” he asks.

 

“Mmm,” she says, frowning and opening her eyes to look at him. “Need a minute for what?”

 

He raises an eyebrow. “Did you not want to, I believe your phrasing was ‘have me inside of you?’”

 

“Oh, yes,” she says, full of strange surprise and sudden want. “Oh, yes, I do. I need a minute.”

 

And that seems to amuse him, too. “You will let me know when you are ready,” he says dryly, resting his free hand against her feet, pressing them to his chest.

 

“Yes,” she says, squeezing his hand and letting her head loll back against the mattress. She takes a few relaxed breaths and figures they may as well move things along. She tilts her chin down to look at him. “Can we go ahead?”

 

He raises an eyebrow. “That was not very polite, Miss Pryce. Or very specific.” 

 

Fine, then. If he’s going to keep on like this, she can play, too. “I want you inside of me, Commander. Will you please fuck me?”

 

“Yes.” He shakes his hand loose from hers, and she is surprised to find she dislikes being without his touch immensely. 

 

He takes her feet, one in each hand, and kisses her heels. It’s one of the little details of the way he attends to her body that makes her breath catch. She wants to reach out and touch him when he does it, wants to stroke his face and kiss him, but he is too far away, and she can’t push herself up on her shoulder. So, she watches him instead.

 

He pulls her legs up straight, and rests them against his shoulder again, holding her ankles with one hand. She thinks he is about to proceed apace, but he stops again, and puts his free hand on her hip.

 

“You are ready?”

 

She nods, hurried and grateful.

 

“Good,” he says. “I am, as well.”

 

He pauses again, but only for a moment, to kiss her ankle once more. Then he takes himself in his hand, and shifts his weight, shifts his legs, so his knees are further apart, almost a split, even with his knees folded and his feet behind him, and his hips are lower still — and, God, she thinks, he’s flexible, not just strong but supple, too — and he pushes himself inside her.

 

She closes her eyes and moans when he does. Twice was more than enough to give her a hunger for this, but not nearly enough to satisfy her. And really, his propensity for going slowly isn’t something to complain about, she decides. It feels good now, when he starts moving slowly inside her, holding her in place at her ankles and her hip, rocking himself steadily forward and back within her.

 

She finds herself sighing, and moaning, and she reaches to her hip where his hand is, and works her fingers through his until they are twined together again, in a way she thinks he likes, and that she is coming to like, herself. She lets her head roll back, and makes soft, aching noises in reply to the slow, steady movement of his cock inside of her.

 

And he doesn’t seem to intend anything more than that, for a while. He turns his face into her leg again, kisses it, keeps his face pressed there. He rocks against her, holds her hand tightly, holds her ankles, breathes against her leg, and it all feels, truly, excellent.

 

And then he speeds up, just a little, which feels even better. She tightens her grip on his hand and makes a different, still pleasured, kind of sound, and he gets faster still, and faster still, tightening his grip on her ankles, all of it feeling better, and better, even if it isn’t edging her towards anything particular yet, even if it just enjoyment of the moment — until he is moving a little too vigorously, and the motion goes all the way to her shoulder, and she cries out.

 

He stops abruptly, changing his grip on her ankle. She opens her eyes to find him looking at her.

 

“What happened?” 

 

“Mmm, nothing — don’t stop.”

 

“You are not hurt?” His accent is back; it’s a flattering pattern. Not that she’s thinking much about it at the moment.

 

“No, please.”

 

There is another still moment, and he starts to move slowly again, and then faster, and a little faster — but just before he builds up to something too fast, he stops again, and moves his hips back, and pulls out of her completely. He shakes his hand loose from her hand, too.

 

She groans, and opens her eyes again, lifting her head to look at him.

 

He is looking back at her, quite serious. “You would like to feel me inside again?” His accent is stronger; his grammar, worse.

 

“I —" she blinks stupidly. "Yes,” she manages.

 

“How badly?”

 

“I —” she doesn’t know how to answer that. This feels extremely, _extremely_ unfair, sense of play notwithstanding. “Badly,” she says, whining. “Please.”

 

“Ask nicely,” he says, words blending into each other. “Be specific.”

 

“Oh,  _ God _ . Please." She would really like to smack him. She would like, more, for him to start fucking her again. "I want your cock inside me again. Please.”

 

“Yes.” And he slides into her again.

 

He repeats the cycle, grip tight on her ankles, holding her thigh with his free hand. 

 

She reaches down along her body until she can just brush her fingertips against the back of his hand, and makes desperate, yearning sounds as he moves in her. Then he pulls out again, and she cries in frustration.

 

“Tell me,” he says. It is one entire word.

 

“ _ Please,  _ please put it in me again.”

 

“It?”

 

“Please let me feel your cock again,” she gasps out.

 

“Better,” he says, sounding entertained.

 

The third time he pulls out she nearly sobs. And this time, he does something different. He puts his fingers against her again. “You would like to cum?” he asks.

 

“Please,” she whimpers. She’d say yes, probably, to anything he asked.

 

“Be specific.” The words are elided strangely, a lovely sound. 

 

“Please make me cum again.”

 

He strokes his thumb against her clit, slow, sure, heavy, and she whines. Then he stops. “You want to cum while I am inside you?”

 

She makes a brainless sound.

 

“Specific,” he says lightly, in spite of his accent.

 

“Yes,” she groans, guttural and stupid and hungry.

 

“Not polite.”

 

“Oh, God, I —”

 

“Not specific, Miss Pryce.”

 

“Yes, Commander, I want to cum around your cock,  _ please.”  _

 

“Yes, better.” And he sounds almost happy when he says it.

 

He cannot push himself fully inside her in this position, especially not while making room for his hand, but he moves inside her steadily while massaging her clit with his thumb and the combination of sensations — pressure and friction steady and relentless inside the sensitive opening of her, friction and pressure steady and relentless against the nerve center folded in soft flesh and nestled near the junction of her thighs — flattens what is left of her brain into a mess of animal need, most of which she expresses through an increasingly ridiculous symphony of begging, pleading, singing complaint.

 

She can feel him press his mouth to her leg, and she thinks she can feel him laughing at her, too, as she whines and yowls and squirms, so close to cumming but not quite — not quite— not quite— not quite— not quite —

 

_ There.  _ She cries out, a single high note, and keeps crying as his thumb moves and moves and moves against her clit and his cock moves in her too, and she bucks and doesn’t even feel her shoulder, hardly feels anything — and then his thumb stops, and he presses his face fiercely against her leg and speaks against her skin, and he grabs her thigh and holds her against him tightly and moves as far into her as he can, and pumps his hips there, suddenly violently fast, fast, fast — but only for a few short moments before he, too cums: hisses something when he does, fingers dug into her, face pressed into her calf, cock buried as far inside her as he can manage in this position.

 

And that sensation, the throb of him inside her, the pulse of life, is what she has been longing for most since their second night. It is a strange, deep craving she does not care to examine, but does wish to indulge. She does not feel it as well in this position, maybe, as she might in others, but that is better not feeling it at all.

 

And then there are a few moments of dazed sensation. He sits back and changes his grip on her legs. He leaves gentle, stroking touches wherever he can reach, presses more kisses into her calves, ankles, heels, and then moves to the side, lowers her legs to the mattress, and presses his face to her hips.

 

She wants to cover his head with both of her hands like a blessing, but she can only move the one arm comfortably. She runs her fingers through his hair, twisting and curling the thick, soft strands of midnight blue. He moves up her body, pressing his face first into her belly and then into her breast; he is doing something that is sort of a kiss, sort of an exercise in deep breathing. She likes it.

 

Then he gets to her face. She is close enough that she can stroke his cheek, and she does so, still feeling soft and still a little wrung out herself.

 

“Thank you for that,” she murmurs.

 

“Of course.” He looks at her shoulder. “You are not hurt?”

 

“I was already hurt.”

 

“That was not what I asked.”

 

“I could use another hypo,” she admits. “You know the miniatures? These hotels usually have an emergency medkit in the bathroom.”

 

“I will get it for you.” There is something very natural in his face as he says it, and it strikes some strange chord deep inside her. 

 

She feels the strange upwelling again, from before, whatever aching thing had surged up beneath her dizzy vertigo. She finds herself blinking a little rapidly. “I’d appreciate that,” she says. He shifts his weight as if to rise, and she says: “Will you kiss me first? Then get the hypo.”

 

And that makes him raise an eyebrow at her, but not unkindly. “Of course,” he says, and he does.

 

He is clearly more practiced at administering hyposprays than Juahir — an odd thing, that such a simple procedure should have gradations of skill. But as in all things, he seems above the rest. She thanks him for that, too, running her fingers through his hair again, and asking to be kissed.

 

Then she remembers there are still things to discuss, and she asks him to please get the box of bonbons.

 

He does that, too, quite obediently, and settles himself on the bed next to her, holding it.

 

“Your gift from Senator Organa,” he says. There is a little dry humor to it, but some serious curiosity, too.

 

“Yes,” she says slowly. “He used it to send me a data card.”

 

Thrawn raises his eyebrows. “Did he? How interesting.”

 

“Yes,” she says slowly, “but I thought it was more interesting that he… Well, it was interesting that he sent it in this  _ way,  _ I think. And he didn’t pick these himself. Today he —” she stops, frowning.

 

“You do not find the data card interesting?”

 

“No. Well — let me start at the beginning.” This story begins, of course, with Thrawn. Without the  _ Thunder Wasp,  _ she would not have asked Senator Organa for help, and if she had not done that, he would not have looked into her past, or taken an interest in her future, or at least in her present. She tells Thrawn the story of her encounters with Senator Organa in great detail, and he listens carefully.

 

At last he says: “What do you believe his interest in you to be?”

 

“I’m not sure,” she confesses.

 

“Perhaps he is attempting to persuade you to consider a different career path,” Thrawn says.

 

“Like you?”

 

“Perhaps.”

 

“That implies he has some idea what my career path  _ is.  _ I don’t think he knows what I’m planning. Also,” she adds a little querulously, “ _ you’ve _ accepted my choice of career path. _ ” _

 

“Senator Organa seems to think your work at Higher Skies is not a good use of your abilities,” says Thrawn, ignoring her last jab.

 

“No, he doesn’t think much of Higher Skies,” Arihnda agrees, “but he’s not recruiting me for his version of the rebellion.”

 

“Is he not?”

 

She frowns at him. “I hardly think old thank you letters from one-time social work clients counts as a recruitment pitch.”

 

“No?”

 

“No,” she repeats a little sourly.

 

“I think you may be incorrect.”

 

“Do you?”

 

“If I understand correctly, much of the discontent directed at the Empire is related to a… lack of concern for life. For the welfare of its citizens.”

 

“Well, yes. It’s not an entirely unwarranted critique.”

 

“No?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.

 

“Well — no. Centralized state control of commerce, divestment from private property, production quotas, draconian law enforcement, treating natural resources and labor as Imperial assets — it’s a very efficient system in many ways, but it concentrates all the power here, on Coruscant, and on the Core Worlds generally, and doesn’t leave much for the planets that aren’t able to make themselves useful, or the citizens who don’t know how to work the system. It’s harsh, if you don’t have the right standing.”

 

“Hence your desire to seek advancement in Imperial service from Coruscant itself, correct?”

 

“Exactly. Not everyone gets ahead in life. That’s true in independent systems, too, you know, not just in the Empire. I’m only saying that I understand the complaint.”

 

“Indeed.”

 

“There are good things, too, of course. There  _ are  _ laws and regulations that do a good job of protecting citizens  _ when they’re enforced properly,  _ but I understand why people dislike Moff Tarkin’s ideas about centralized economic controls, and the way the Oversectors are used to organize civilian governance, and the way Imperial civil service homogenizes local government. I  _ understand  _ all of that.”

 

“But you do not agree?”

 

“Well, I —” she stops, frowns. “If I were still living on Lothal, I suppose I  _ would  _ agree,” she says finally. “Pryce Mining was independent. It was — it was ours. But I lost that option when Ryder Azadi framed my mother for embezzlement. Getting her out of prison meant either giving him my family’s mine, which would have gotten me nothing, or giving it to the Empire, and at least Senator Renking was willing to give me a job and help my parents relocate.”

 

“I see.” 

 

“And I don’t think that letters of people grateful for seeing  _ Imperial _ rules and  _ Imperial  _ regulations properly enforced sounds like a great sales pitch for a rebellion, either.”

 

“No?”

 

“No. Unless of course you’re telling me it’s the opening segue for him to point out that there is something fundamentally broken about a system where — look, I don’t think it’s a recruitment tactic.”

 

“Indeed, you have said several times.”

 

“Are _ you _ trying to recruit me to the Rebellion, Commander?” It’s meant to redirect him.

 

It doesn’t work. “I am merely waiting, Miss Pryce, for you to finish reasoning through the ways in which this gift might be the opening salvo in a plan to persuade you to leave your job at Higher Skies, and reasoning your way through what interest Senator Organa might have in persuading you to make such a change — and what he might prefer you to be doing, instead.”

 

Arihnda thinks about it very carefully. She decides that Thrawn’s ideas about Senator Organa, and indeed Thrawn’s ideas generally, are, for the moment, much more interesting to her than Senator Organa himself. And then she plays a likely card: “You think he has a plan for me.”

 

“I think it is possible.”

 

And follows it with a second card, revealing the flush one face at a time: “Like you have plans for Jakeeb and Barlin. And, I assume, for Vanto. And for me.”

 

He is silent for a long moment in response to that. Finally, he says: “You overestimate the degree to which I ‘plan’ for the talented and promising subordinates I am privileged to command. Jakeeb, Vanto, the rest — yes, I see their potential. I have hopes and desires for their futures. But all I do — all I can do — is endeavor to keep the road of opportunity open before them, and encourage them to follow it towards accomplishment.” And after a short silence he adds: “And I have not made specific plans for you, Miss Pryce. I am, however, interested to see what you will do.”

 

As he speaks, his face is… not particularly expressive, really. But Arihnda thinks what little expression she sees is extremely honest. And she believes him, finally, about not having a trap set for her — which is how she thinks of a plan. She doesn’t try to play any other cards, either. Instead, she moves her hand to touch him, a light pressure of her fingertips against his chest, and, echoing some of his phrasing intentionally, says: “You might be overestimating Senator Organa’s plans for me.”

 

“Perhaps.” Then Thrawn frowns. “And you did not read the contents of this card? You are certain he is not using you to access Higher Skies’ data architecture for himself, with a thief program of his own?”

 

And Arihnda goes very still at that, inside and out. Then she says: “I hadn’t thought of it.”

 

“Perhaps we should have Colonel Yularen examine it for you, before you make use of it.”

 

Arihnda is quiet for a long minute, and then says: “Yes, I think that’s a good idea.” And she sits with that thought. It’s possible, what Thrawn’s suggesting. It’s certainly possible, but Bail —  _ Bail _ — but it’s still possible. She hates it, but it’s possible.

 

The quiet that follows this exchange unfolds for a long time. Finally, Thrawn says: “And what of Miss Holdo?”

 

Arihnda takes a deep breath, almost a sigh, and frowns at the ceiling. “I don’t know. If he’s trying to recruit me to the Rebellion, then integrating me into his social network like this makes sense. If he’s using me to get at Higher Skies, then it seem excessive. I already have the data card, if that’s his play.”

 

“He may be more subtle than Moff Ghadi.”

 

“True,” she says. She doesn’t say anything else for a while. She would rather be recruited for a rebellion than used as a patsy yet again, but she supposes she doesn’t have much say in the matter.

 

She doesn’t have much interest in the bonbons now, either. She lets a sullen silence ooze into the room, and does nothing to alleviate it.

 

Eventually, Thrawn says: “Regardless of Senator Organa’s intent, it may be to your advantage to cultivate a relationship with him. And with Miss Holdo; you may be able to use her to your advantage, as well, when you understand the situation more clearly.”

 

“Yes,” says Arihnda dully. She would prefer, for the moment, to wallow.

 

There is a rustling beside her. He is opening the box, apparently, and from the sound of it, examining the candies. There are six of them: three pairs of identical orbs with flat bottoms. Two are white with green specks, two reddish-brown, and two a kind of dusty charcoal color. She had seen them yesterday. She continues looking at the ceiling.

 

Then she feels something on her stomach. A light pressure, from something cooler than her skin. She looks down. Thrawn has placed one of the bonbons just below her ribs. He places its twin beside it. Methodically, he places the next four in the same way, so that all six are arranged in two neat rows on her stomach, between the archway of her ribcage and the dimple of her belly button.

 

Then he puts his hand low on her belly, almost between her hips. “So,” he says, “you are expected to be able to discuss these with Miss Holdo. We will prepare for that conversation. Where shall we begin?”

 

And she is still not interested, really, in the bonbons, or in Amilyn, or even in Bail, who may in fact be using her, which she does not want to be true — but she is interested in Thrawn. And she is interested, in spite of herself, in whatever he is doing here.

 

After a minute, she says: “Can you choose?”

 

“Certainly,” he says. And after, apparently, thinking for a moment, he leans forward, and takes one in his mouth, delicately, and lifts it from her stomach. One of the charcoal-colored ones.

 

Then he shifts his body again, leans towards her, leans very close indeed, and waits.

 

It only takes her a minute to get the idea, and she’s almost surprised at her own surprise. She hesitates a minute, and leans up a little, herself — not much, thanks to both her shoulder and the little arrangement of treats on her belly, but just enough that she can take half the candy in her teeth, and bite.

 

It’s not really the flavor she expects: it’s fruity, and strangely acidic. It reminds of a berry of some kind, but she can’t place it. And there’s a bitter, but not assertive, undertone, something flatter and cleaner than the sharp fruit notes. There’s a sweetness to it, but only enough to make it palatable. It has none of the overbearing, sharp slicing sugar taste she expects in desserts. It’s soft and a little chewy, but not sticky, and dissolves softly in her mouth as she flattens against her hard palate with her tongue. She doesn’t like it, exactly, but she doesn’t dislike it, either.

 

She looks at Thrawn, finds him looking expectantly at her. “The same, or shall we try another?”

 

“Another, please,” she says.

 

This time he plucks one of the reddish ones off of her. She takes a little longer to take a bite of it from his teeth, takes a minute just to enjoy the sight of him hovering over her, to enjoy the entire… scenario. She likes it, so much that she thinks she’d like to repeat it.

 

This one tastes like earth, and spice. She likes it a great deal, savors it slowly.

 

“The last one, this time?” he asks when she is finished.

 

“Mm,” she says. The white one with green specks turns out to be her favorite: it’s some kind of rich, nut-based paste, studded with herbs and little salt crystals that crack on her tongue like sharp bursts of light.

 

“Oh,” she says, “I like that one.”

 

“Do you? Then we will save it.” Then he picks up the second charcoal-colored bonbon in his fingertips and holds it out to her.

 

She frowns. “You aren’t going to share it?”

 

“I am not meant to discuss these with Miss Holdo. Tell me what you think of it.”

 

She takes a careful bite from his fingers, not all of it, and chews more slowly. She describes it a little — haltingly — and he asks a few surprisingly helpful questions. She takes another bite, and talks about it more. Takes the last bite.

 

He picks up the next candy.

 

“I think there’s supposed to be some kind of palate cleanse between tastings, isn’t there?” she asks.

 

He pauses, looks at her. “What did you have in mind?”

 

“Kiss me,” she says.

 

“I do not think that will work as intended,” he says dryly.

 

“No? Let’s find out.”

 

It doesn’t cleanse her palate, but she does enjoy it. She finds herself almost smiling as she settles her head more comfortably, after, and waits for the next bonbon.

 

She talks through this one, too: the red, earthy, spiced one. She likes it more than the bitter, acidic fruit flavors of the first. 

 

He kisses her after this one, too.

 

She takes only two large bites of the last one, and doesn’t discuss it much at all.

 

“I see you are less analytical about the things you enjoy,” he says with amusement.

 

“Yes,” she says. “Will you kiss me again?”

 

After, he lounges beside her, one hand on her stomach. She thinks, overall, it’s an improvement over turning away to examining the ceiling.

 

“May I ask a question about Governor Azadi?” he asks.

 

“Mmm, what?”

 

“Governor Azadi. You said that your only option was to hand him your family mine, which would have left you with nothing. He would not have continued to employ your family to manage their own mining operation?”

 

And this is something she has not thought about since… Since it happened. But she has an excellent memory, and she remembers it exactly.

 

And she knows that she has not told him the exact truth.

 

She is silent for a while. Finally, he gives her a surprisingly gentle prompt: “You never told me how you came to Coruscant. How you came to work for Senator Renking. Why Azadi framed your mother for embezzlement. I assume they are all related.”

 

“You didn’t ask.”

 

“Indeed. I am asking now.”

 

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

 

He sits up a little more beside her, examines her face. “No? But I am most interested.”

 

“I don’t care what interests you,” she says, trying to sit up. It fails, predictably.

 

“You wish to go somewhere?”

 

“I’d like to shower. Can you help me up?”

 

He is a little pointedly silent, perhaps, but he it does anyway.

 

When she emerges from the shower, she finds that drying oneself with a towel one-armed is fairly inconvenient. After a minute’s sullen struggle, she marches into the bedroom, dripping wet, holding the towel in front of her.

 

“Commander, would you —” she can’t get through the question with as much bravado as she’d hoped. “Could you help me, please?”

 

He has the grace not to laugh out loud at her, for which she is very grateful — although he does smile, just a little, very wryly. And he does this thing, too, as if he has had a little practice at it. After, when he has wrapped the towel around her, he says: “May I make a suggestion? It concerns Miss Madras.”

 

Not the topic she expected. “Oh?”

 

“We have discussed the stresses inherent in remaining in close contact with Miss Madras, Mister MarDapp, and Mister Dos?”

 

Which they had. Sort of. Three days ago, when she’d admitted she was angry. “Yes,” she says.

 

“And I believe you have given Miss Madras enough information about our arrangement to excuse any unusual absences or breaks in routine on your part?”

 

“I — yes,” she says.

 

“You should use this to your advantage. Or perhaps  _ take advantage _ is the more appropriate term.”

 

“Take advantage?”

 

“Learned from Jakeeb,” he says. “He favors idiomatic expressions, I believe.” He pauses for a moment, then: “Take advantage is correct, I think.”

 

She can see a little furrow in his brow. She resists an urge to reach out and run her fingers over it. “How should I do that?” she asks.

 

“As you have this room on a more or less permanent basis, and as Miss Madras is unlikely to question your absence from her home, I believe you should stay here until this matter with Higher Skies is resolved. Continuing you to live with Miss Madras is doing you no favors.”

 

Which is a close, intimate observation about her welfare that she doesn't entirely know what to do with. She concentrates on something else. “Doing me no favors?”

 

“From Captain Cheno. He also favored expressive turns of phrase, from time to time.”

 

“Are you planning on staying, yourself?” And she’s not really sure where that question comes from, and she’s not interested in chasing it down once it escapes.

 

He takes it in stride, even and calm. “No. My time is owed elsewhere, and my day begins quite early.”

 

“But tomorrow is a weekend.” And that is her mouth getting ahead of her again.

 

“Indeed,” he says. “And a free day for me, although military schedules are not reliably built around the civilian week.” That is either very dry, or not humorous at all.

 

“No,” he says, “I suppose that’s fair.” Then, frowning, she asks: “Where is your time owed, exactly?”

 

And he pulls his head back a little, looking at her appraisingly. Then he says: “Tell me how you came to Coruscant, and I will bring you.”

 

Which makes her pause. She considers pushing it one further and saying she’ll tell him if he stays the night — but she’s still not sure where that desire is from, or what impact it would have one whatever equilibrium they seem to be reaching. Instead, she says: “Take me tomorrow, and I’ll tell you after.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did steal one Thrawn's line from the great man himself (Bonaparte): "Never interrupt the enemy while he is making a mistake." It's Thrawn's now, and he's not giving it back.


	6. A Goal in Mind, Pt 2 of 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arihnda collects useful information from several people, and comes up with a novel answer to the dilemma of her own career. (Also, she meets Eli and immediately chews on her own foot, loses her temper with her not-boyfriend, and disappoints her friendly uncles Wullf and Bail.)

 

_ Not failure, but low aim is sin. — Benjamin E. Mays _

 

_ Get your principles straight; the rest is a matter of detail.   _ — Napoleon Bonaparte

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Navy docks are not a place Arihnda frequents, but she knows her way to them well enough.

 

She’s met at the first checkpoint by a neat, keen woman who is no longer quite  _ young  _ but not middle-aged either. She has shining brown hair that’s twisted up beneath a cap, a smattering of freckles, and light green eyes that are sharp and clear with just a touch of wit.

 

“Lieutenant Barlin,” says the woman, sticking a hand straight out. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, ma’am.”

 

Arihnda extends her own hand. “Thank you, Lieutenant. I’m —”

 

“I know, ma’am. We’ve got a visitor’s pass ready for you.” Barlin holds out a data card, and just as Arihnda takes it, Barlin winks.

 

So Arihnda is not to speak her name aloud, or put it into data banks. She and Thrawn hadn’t discussed a plan for this; she’d figured Ghadi was unlikely to be monitoring visitors to the  _ Thunder Wasp _ , but she likes this plan even better.

 

Barlin does all the talking, of which there is precious little with the bored sentrymen, and shows Arihnda to a shuttle that might accommodate four persons. Barlin herself is the pilot.

 

Arihnda settles herself gingerly into a bucket seat, careful of her shoulder. Several hours of deep, still rest and her own propensity for healing quickly have helped a bit and she no longer needs the sling. But her shoulder still aches terribly, and screams when she moves it wrong.

 

“So,” says Barlin, turning to look at Arihnda after engaging the autonav, “have you ever been on a navy ship before?”

 

“I toured a star destroyer once, when I was working in the Senate.” She doesn’t see a reason to lie.

 

“The  _ Thunder Wasp _ is a smaller than that, but not as small as the  _ Blood Crow.  _ Still feels pretty close, though. Closer than any other ship I’ve ever served on. It’s… The Commander has a real talent for getting us all working in the same direction. Not just discipline and protocol and policy, but almost like… Well.” She smiles: warm, satisfied, somehow athletic. “You’ll see.”

 

“I’m sure I will. Am I right in thinking you met the Commander aboard the  _ Blood Crow _ ?”

 

“Yes ma’am,” says Barlin. And she unfolds her own neat, concise version of the events aboard the  _ Dromedar.  _ From Barlin, it sounds like a rollicking adventure, and Thrawn sounds like the dashing hero of a holonovel. Barlin makes herself sound — probably unconsciously — like an apprentice hero: a straight-shooting professional who nevertheless retains a sense of action and fun. Probably this is partly just in the telling, and probably it is partly true. Arihnda thinks Barlin volunteered for the mission partly because she judged that Thrawn was a good leader making a correct decision — Barlin herself seems to have the easy self-confidence one finds in people of principle — and partly because she thinks trotting after Thrawn is the best way to find the sort of adventure she yearns for.

 

Arihnda asks a few questions, conversational more than probing, and Barlin answers them gamely. The more time Arihnda spends with her, the more she thinks of Barlin as a professional athlete who ended up in the Navy by accident and has decided to make her best go of it anyway.

 

Arihnda also thinks Barlin’s best go must be quite something, or Thrawn wouldn’t have coordinated with Deyland to put her aboard the  _ Thunder Wasp.  _

 

Speaking of — “If you look out the starboard viewport, ma’am, we’re coming home now.”

 

And that phrase, said without thought, tells Arihnda a great deal.

 

The  _ Thunder Wasp _ is a lovely little vessel, she thinks. She finds light cruisers rather charming; not as intimidating as a star destroyer, with something endearing about the way the hull pinches in before the thrusters. She’s sure it has a purpose but from far away it makes the silhouette non-threatening, somehow. It reminds her of a sunfish, a little.

 

Barlin takes over from the autonav and goes through the docking procedure. It’s practiced, smooth, calm, and there is even a little easy, fraternal back-and-forth with the shipside controller. It’s relaxed, familiar, and full of natural mutual liking, as well as an almost familial rapport. It’s not at all the rigid, slightly pompous attitude Arihnda expects from the Imperial Navy.

 

But it does seem like the dynamic of two people who are working in the same direction. Two who people support one another: teammates who are happy to pass and go like grav-ball players. Two people who are part of a greater whole.

 

Yes, Arihnda is starting to see how Thrawn manages his ship.

 

And she would like to see Thrawn himself, hopefully alone for at least a minute. She’s wanted to be close to him again since waking, groggy and sated from her first night of good sleep in a week, curled around a pillow that still smelled faintly of him. She would like to be close to the steady, reliable mass of his body. Would like to touch his hands and feel his hands touch her. Would like to run her fingers through his hair, and over the planes and angles of his face. Would like to press her face against his neck and breathe —

 

None of which is likely to be permitted today, at least not aboard ship.

 

Barlin takes her directly to Thrawn’s office, which is not a far walk, really, but is long enough for Arihnda to absorb the tenor of the place. There’s an air of… natural, easy cohesion, perhaps, a relaxed unity, a sense of shared purpose and pleasure in that purpose, that doesn’t exactly comport with what she knows of the Imperial military.

 

Everyone who had served with him under Cheno wanted to stay when he was given command, Thrawn had told her. And now she is beginning to understand it. She can feel it. The people on this ship want to be here. 

 

They want to follow the person who leads them.

 

Barlin chats with her amiably as they walk. It’s meaningless small talk, but the patter fills the time, and Barlin shares a few details that add to Arihnda’s sense of things. Thrawn likes to quiz his subordinates, she learns. Unsurprising. He likes them to talk through a problem for him, and likes to see them reach the answers on their own. Also unsurprising — but strangely, somehow touching.

 

No one pays them much attention as they go, except for friendly hellos thrown to Barlin. Arihnda has the sense that strange visitors are not so unusual aboard this unusual ship.

 

“Here we are, ma’am,” says Barlin, turning smartly on her heel outside a nondescript door. Barlin’s voice has a sort of humming excitement too it: here we are, outside  _ the  _ room, her tone seems to say.  _ The  _ room, the most important one.

 

It’s charming, really.

 

“Thank you, Lieutenant,” says Arihnda. “Will you be joining us?”

 

“No, ma’am,” says Barlin, pressing a button on the control panel. The door slides open. 

 

From inside, a familiar voice: “Lieutenant Barlin, thank you. You may leave our guest.”

 

“Sir,” Barlin says, turning to the doorway and throwing a quick, perfunctory salute. 

 

Thrawn is not alone.

 

Yularen is with him, lounging on the only sofa. She thinks that must be a leftover from Cheno’s time; the office overall does not feel like a space Thrawn has entirely claimed for himself. It feels, somehow, like a shrine, to someone loved, and left behind.

 

There is also a young man with them, standing near the desk. He has tousled brown hair, clear brown skin, and a fresh, attractive face — and an Ensign’s plaque on his breast.

 

Eli Vanto.

 

She remembers him, mostly from Ascension week. She remembers how out of place he seemed, how unhappy. He seems much more at ease here: at home quite literally, she imagines, if Barlin can be thought of as speaking for the ship. 

 

“Miss Pryce,” says Thrawn, who still seated behind his desk, “please join us.”

 

Yularen rises — Thrawn does not — as the door closes behind her.

 

“Good to see you,” Yularen says, making a gesture that means  _ sit by me,  _ and clapping her on the shoulder — the good one — when she does.

 

“You as well, Colonel. How is your wife?”

 

“Always wanting more of my time,” says Yularen with a fond smile. “How are you feeling?”

 

“Very well, thank you,” she says. “And curious, too,” she adds, only a little coy.

 

“Indeed,” says Thrawn. “I expect you will be of use to today’s meeting. Vanto will explain.” He gives a little nod.

 

She remembers this, too, she thinks, from what little she’s seen of them together: he likes giving Vanto chances to act. To stretch, learn, perform. He likes making sure Vanto’s quality is shown, is recognized. Vanto is his favored student.  _ Beloved son,  _ a little voice whispers inside her, sparking a quick, ferocious flash of jealousy. She tamps it down.

 

“Ma’am,” says Vanto, with a polite nod, “I understand you’re gathering intelligence from Higher Skies and Yinchom?”

 

“Yes, Ensign.”

 

Eli stiffens a little at that. Imperceptible, probably, to most people; imperceptible to anyone who expects only to see military rigidity; imperceptible to anyone who hasn’t made an art of studying the people around them for hints of status, and points of weakness. But Arihnda sees it: the point of hurt pride. She makes a note to find some other, less abrasive way of addressing him.

 

“Right,” says Eli. “Well, we started looking into Yinchom recently because we thought it might be linked to a pirate we’ve been investigating — calls himself Nightswan.”

 

And that trips something in Arihnda’s memory. A word half-heard, half-forgotten — but she can’t place where. She doesn’t remember. 

 

Vanto goes on: the Dromedar, subsequent encounters, what they think they know.

 

It’s not much of a briefing. It’s inwardly focused: the curt, slightly short monologue of a person who is accustomed to communicating primarily with people he already knows, already trusts, already finds familiar. The tone of a person who is not quite comfortable with an interloper — and she remembers that, too, from Ascension week: remembers this young man’s blatant discomfort with the give-and-take of Coruscanti glad-handing.

 

He’s acting the way a Lothal miner might act with an off-world fancy-hat, she thinks.

 

She can work with that. “Thank you,” she says when he’s done. “You can call me Arihnda, by the way. Would you tell me a little more what it’s been like looking into him, Eli? Can I call you Eli?”

 

That stops him for a moment, then: “Yes, ma’am.” Declining to call her by her name isn’t quite pointed, but it’s not accidental, either — overall, a smoother dodge than she would have expected. Perhaps she’s misjudged his comfort with social dances, after all. “We’ve been looking into Nightswan for a while…” And this time his monologue is more revealing. He’s still wary of her, but his speech is more personal, and personable. So he’s  _ cautious, _ she decides, more than  _ uncomfortable _ . When he’s finished talking, she has a sense of what Eli Vanto personally thinks of Nightswan, née Neville Cygni: she perceives strange curiosity, a hint of grudging respect, and a little bit of weird, grateful excitement that comes from the thrill of investigating. Then he adds something else: “He seems very interested in doonium. The Commander thinks he might have been a miner at one point, maybe someone who lost a family mine to the Empire.”

 

Arihnda looks at Thrawn. For a moment, there is no one else in the room. But he’s  _ met  _ Nightswan, she tells herself. He’s seen the man face-to-face, spoken to him on the Dromedar. He knows who he’s looking for. He knows it’s not her.  _ She  _ knows it’s not her. Still, she feels strangely —

 

“That’s interesting,” she says, stomping down violently on the feeling she has, that she is becoming trapped somehow. “How long did you say you’ve all been at it, if you don’t mind saying again?”

 

“We first began discussing Nightswan about two years ago,” says Yularen. “Thrawn mentioned him when we were making the rounds during Ascension week. Because of the  _ Dromedar _ , of course.”

 

“You were there, weren’t you?” says Eli to Arihnda, suddenly. “At the Alisandre? I think you slipped off before we started talking about him.”

 

Arihnda’s back stiffens. For a moment, only the briefest of moments, she remembers when she  _ slipped off _ perfectly: the freezing in her lungs. The powder landing on her face. In her hair. In her eyes. The world stretching, oozing, going wrong. Fear. 

 

Anger.

 

_ Ghadi. _

 

“Yes,” she says sharply.

 

There is a moment of awkward silence; no one has missed her change in mood, least of all Vanto, whose handsome farm-boy face now holds a narrow, wary skepticism that makes her want to spit at him. Beside Vanto, Thrawn is looking at her with keen interest. Yularen shifts beside her, face clouding with something that might be concern. Before any of them can speak, she takes a sharp breath, and says, brusquely: “What else do you know about Nightswan? And what do you think it has to do with me?”

 

“As mentioned, we believe he may be linked to the recruitment efforts at Yinchom,” says Thrawn smoothly. It may be his version of a rescue; if it moves the conversation along without forcing her to feel again, to remember again, or worse still to explain what she feels or what she remembers, she’ll take it. “And we have mentioned his interest in doonium. If Miss Madras is recruiting to his cause, whatever it may be, from Yinchom, and Miss Madras and Mister MarDapp are working together —”

 

“Maybe he’s the one funding Higher Skies,” Arihnda cuts ahead of him, only a little snappish. “That means it’s actually Nightswan, not Driller personally, who’s so obsessed with doonium. I have copies of Driller’s accounting books. Do you have something for me to compare them to?”

 

“Indeed I do,” says Thrawn, queueing up something on his workstation. “With Colonel Yularen’s assistance, Vanto and I have compiled comprehensive records of all of Nightswan’s activities. Vanto has also done a great many analyses, which you are welcome to review.”

 

“There’s definitely a pattern,” Vanto adds, loosening again, just a little. “We just aren’t sure what it matches — yet.”

 

“I’ll be very interested to compare our notes side-by-side, Eli,” she says, trying very hard to loosen up again, herself. “I understand you were trained for supply and logistics?”

 

“Yes, ma’am.”

 

“I have a little experience with that, myself,” she offers. It’s intended as a way to make friends, or at least to be sociable, but her heart’s not in it.

 

Thrawn stands and Arihnda takes that as her signal to take his seat behind the desk. He’s queued up a file of data sheets, business records, analyses — she has her data pad with her, and two data cards: one with copies of her work on Higher Skies, one for Yularen to look at for another reason. She lays on them on the desk beside her.

 

“Logistics and supply, ma’am?” Vanto prompts. It is also intended as an attempt at sociability, of a sort: wary and uncertain, but not unkind.

 

“Miss Pryce has some experience in the mining industry,” Thrawn offers for her. She is hardly paying attention to Eli, now. Or Thrawn.

 

“Mining?” Eli sounds interested.

 

She starts sorting through the files Thrawn has selected for her. Many of them she disgards immediately.

 

Vanto’s analyses, though, she focuses in on. There’s something familiar in the shape of them. She takes the datacard with her own work, slots it into the workstation.

 

“My parents owned a mining company on Lothal,” she says absently.

 

“You’re from the Outer Rim?” Vanto asks.

 

Arihnda is a little too absorbed to respond correctly to Vanto’s attempt — genuine if strained — at friendly conversation. She’s focused, laser-like, on the balance sheets. Profit and loss. Influx and outflow. Change over time. An old, familiar language. And now, she has something to match it against. “Yes,” she says, an answer delivered automatically.

 

“You don’t sound like it.” He says it lightly. It’s probably an attempt at a compliment, and maybe an attempt to learn about her, as well.

 

“Of course not,” she says, distracted, flicking a button on the workstation’s control panel, changing the timeframe of the chart before her from one month to twelve — “I took the time to work on it.” Staring at the chart, she narrows her eyes and frowns —

 

But even bent at her task like she is, she becomes aware of the tense, cold silence that has enveloped the room.

 

She sits back, looks up at Vanto. He is no longer quite looking at her. Something nasty, hurt and closed, has come into his face. He hides it well beneath a mask of practiced professionalism, but it’s still there: the face of a man who is accustomed to being kicked in the teeth, but who hasn’t ever quite come to believe he deserves it. He has taken a lot of kicks, she knows, over his time as Ensign. 

 

Most of them because of Thrawn.

 

Thrawn, who will probably not appreciate what she’s just done.

 

“I’m sorry,” she says to Vanto quickly, “I didn’t mean —”

 

“Don’t mention it, ma’am,” says Vanto stiffly.

 

And there is another beat of silence. Then Thrawn says: “Ensign Vanto, I believe Specialist Jakeeb mentioned another shipment of parts due from central supply today. Would you check on them for us?”

 

“Yes, sir,” says Vanto, tightly. His is the voice of a man who is glad to have a reason to be gone.

 

Yularen is only looking at her, surprise and disappointment in his face. Again.

 

She looks up at Thrawn. His face is perfectly ambiguous: a mask of utter neutrality where she can choose to see whatever she wants, or whatever she fears.

 

“Have you seen anything of interest in the records yet, Miss Pryce?” His voice is neutral, too: perfectly calm and even.

 

“I’m not sure,” she says. It’s at least the truth.

 

“Please continue searching, then,” he says. “And let us know when you are satisfied, in either direction.”

 

“Of course,” she says, taking a deep breath.

 

“Colonel Yularen,” says Thrawn, picking up the extra datacard, still perfectly dispassionate, “do you think you would be able to check this device for any malicious software before Miss Pryce makes use of it?”

 

“Certainly,” Yularen says, rising, turning his attention from Arihnda. “What are you expecting to find? And what is it?”

 

Arihnda returns her attention to the charts before her.

 

“Some reading materials recommended to Miss Pryce by Senator Organa, I believe,” says Thrawn.

 

“Senator Organa?” asks Yularen. His tone catches Arihnda’s attention again.

 

“Indeed. We wish to know —”

 

“I’ll look it over,” says Yularen. And Arihnda cannot place that tone. It’s almost… over-eager. But like he wants to get off the topic, too.

 

There’s a lull. Thrawn is also processing Yularen’s response, she supposes.

 

“I think this may take me some time,” she says into the silence.

 

“Will it? How long, do you think?” Thrawn inquires, returning his attention to her.

 

“I’m not sure. A few hours, at least.”

 

“Indeed. I will have my briefings transferred to a data pad. Colonel —”

 

“I’ll check this over, and you’ll let me know when you find something.”

 

“Indeed, Colonel. Thank you. Miss Pryce, I trust you will not be offended if I leave?”

 

“No, Commander. Thank you.”

 

The two of them do leave her, then, for roughly two hours.

 

For the first hour, she is half absorbed in the charts before, half picking over her interactions with Vanto. She is trying to unravel the thing that made her panic. Ghadi. Her memory. Trying to hold her strange jealousy in her hand and examine that, too: trying to do it dispassionately, rather than with an unhappy sense of burning shame. Trying to assess how badly she misstepped, or overstepped.

 

By the second hour, she has caught the thread of a pattern, and she is unravelling it.

 

Nightswan is funding Higher Skies. That is easy enough to determine: her data and Vanto’s fit together smoothly, two halves of a perfect whole. Deposits roughly equal in value to Nightswan’s thefts flow into Higher Skies’ coffers after a few days’ delay, over and over, a regular sequence that defies categorization as coincidence. The links are still missing, but the pattern is clear.

 

But there is, she thinks, more to be found here. An explanation of  _ why  _ Nightswan is funding Driller. A clue to who he  _ is. _

 

A great deal of it comes from intuition. The mind copies patterns, and looks for patterns that match. She sees a pattern she knows; sees something that matches. She checks, double-checks, tests, confirms, re-confirms. It could be coincidental, but she doesn’t think so.

 

And then she notices a date. One that seems significant to her. One that she has to rack her brains about, for a little while, before she remembers.

 

And then she is certain of what she thinks.

 

By the time Thrawn returns — just Thrawn — she is riveted.

 

He must see it, because he pauses for a long while in the doorway, and then sits on the couch, data pad in hand, without speaking to her.

 

She breaks the silence, first. Attention still mostly on the screen, she says: “How’s Vanto?”

 

“He has endured worse slights,” Thrawn says, noncommittal.

 

She looks up. “I really didn’t mean —”

 

“It is fine. Have you noticed anything of interest?”

 

And she balances on the knife’s edge of that, for minute. Thinks about pushing back a little. Decides against it.  _ Beloved son,  _ says the voice in her mind again. She is probably lucky, she decides, that he seems willing to let it go.

 

She takes one slow, even breath. “I think I may have found something, yes,” she says. “Come look at this.”

 

He moves to stand behind her.

 

“You can see how his heists match Driller’s funding, of course,” she says, “but that's not the interesting thing. Pryce Mining wasn’t the only operation snapped up by the Empire. And it’s… Even a big industry can feel like a small community, sometimes.”

 

“Indeed.”

 

“Right. Are you familiar with the Thrugii Asteroid Belt?”

 

“I know it, yes.”

 

“And the Kanauer Corporation?”

 

“I have heard of it. Perhaps you can add more detail.”

 

“Right. Here —” She switches the display from an analysis of Driller’s finances to a timeline of Nightswan’s operations. Nightswan, she explains, was born when the Kanauer Corporation transformed the Thrugii Asteroid belt into an Imperial mining operation. She is absolutely certain. And  _ then _ she unravels it, the thing he hasn’t put together yet, or at least the thing he wants outside confirmation of: the domino effect of the Kanauer takeover. The pattern isn’t complicated, not at all, but understanding it requires a key. A simple piece of information, which she had, and he didn’t: the way smaller mines like her family’s had struggled to survive. 

 

“That’s why we had to take a loan from Azadi,” she offers suddenly. “Prices weren’t stable anymore, and it was so hard to —” she cuts herself off. “Anyway, look, these match, see here —”

 

And she attaches each of Nightswan’s operations to a specific moment of unrest corresponding to Imperial expansion. Thrawn indicates that he understood something of the general pattern, but Arihnda explains the whys and wherefores — whose mines they were, what it was like to see them collapse, the way the stories came in rumors and in whispers and in mournful messages and strange silent family dinners as well as holonet news reports and dry business documents. 

 

“Yes,” he says at last. “I suspected something of the sort.”

 

“Did you?”

 

“Yes. There is, of course, the theme in his work of precious metals such as doonium. His activities also corresponded, as you have noted, to episodes of anti-Imperial unrest. I expected him to be connected to mining in some way; Imperial expansion has focused on this sector.”

 

Which it has. She’s curious about something else, though. “When did you start investigating him, in a real way? I think if you’d been at it for two years you’d probably have him by now.” It never takes her very long to find the dirt she wants — she'd expect him to be even faster. Then again, she isn't hamstrung by military or criminal procedure. She’s never tried to make an  _ arrest.  _

 

“Flattering, Miss Pryce. But no, investigations are a tedious and laborious business. It has taken some time to put together the pieces you have before you — a task with which you yourself have helped.”

 

“Alright. The files you showed me today, when you did start putting those together?”

 

“Some of it was compiled over a long time, but the majority of it was compiled by Colonel Yularen’s staff shortly before you and I encountered one another at Yinchom, Miss Pryce.”

 

She sits very still. “Yes,” she says. The feeling of the encroaching trap is back.

 

“You find this interesting, perhaps?” he asks.

 

“I might,” she says slowly.

 

“Do you know why we visited Yinchom?”

 

“Looking for Nightswan,” she says.

 

“Indeed. We found Higher Skies along the way — I am using this turn of phrase correctly, am I not? Good, thank you. And do you know how I knew that Yinchom was the dojo we were looking for?”

 

She waits before answering, as if hoping he will say it for her. He doesn’t. So much for wanting to be alone with him. “I was there,” she says.

 

“Your presence told me much, yes.”

 

She’s silent for another long interval, during which he only waits. Then she says: “But you’d met Nightswan before.”

 

“Indeed. I did not believe that you were my quarry.”

 

A longer, more unhappy silence. It would almost have been more flattering if he’d said he thought she might have been sending Neville Cygni marching orders from behind a mask of anonymity. “I gave it away somehow,” she says, sounding strangely sullen even for herself. “Juahir, Higher Skies — I didn’t know anything, and somehow you —”

 

“It was the behavior of Miss Madras relative to you that told me most of what I wished to know.” And then he adds, with something almost like gentle reassurance, “It was also mildly intriguing that you had changed careers.”

 

She ignores the last comment. “So I was right that you took my call because you were looking into Higher Skies,” she says. She doesn’t really have anything else  _ to  _ say.

 

“Indeed. Your connections to both Yinchom and Higher Skies have proven most useful to me — as I imagine your knowledge of mining operations has proven most valuable to Mister MarDapp during your time at Higher Skies,” he says. And then he says, evenly: “I believe I understand well enough how you came to work for Higher Skies after leaving Senator Renking’s employ. Perhaps now you will tell me how you came to work for him in the first place. The details, if you please.”

 

And  _ there _ is the trap. Maybe it would have been smarter just to tell him the first time he'd asked, instead of making him wait, instead of trying to make it a bargaining chip. Because she is telling him now, anyway, not only on his terms, but in his space. And it feels, strangely, like she is being punished.

 

She unfolds the tale slowly, painfully. Haltingly. Everything that has happened to her since stems from it, and everything anyone has used her for or valued her for is wrapped up in it. It is not, in the end, an easy story to tell. Not to tell fully. Not tell completely, and honestly, and in detail — which are the things he demands.

 

When she halts, or hesitates, he asks questions. His questions tell her very clearly that he already knows the story. And the details. Or at least he has a sense of them. Somehow or other, in the past week, he has found out. And he does not intend to let her go until he has heard her say it all aloud.

 

Inch by inch, they cover the ground. 

 

It takes roughly an hour and a half.

 

They start with the market chaos after Kanauer devoured the Thrugii belt. Then the loan from Azadi. The doonium vein. Uvis. She remembers the conversations word for word, and relates them that way. When she tries to summarize, he demands the full account. He does not let her pass from one point in the story to the next without analyzing her mistakes. With Uvis, they are these: showing her hand, primarily; inciting Uvis’ ire, secondarily; failing to involve her parents, the two other relevant and equally affected partners, thirdly. 

 

Then they move on to the false embezzlement charges against her mother. This, too he picks apart. In the end, she explains to him how difficult, how truly horrifically difficult, it can be track money as cleanly as you’d think across a large enough company. And Pryce Mining was large enough. After generations of hard, dedicated work, it had grown large enough — her parents had done a great deal of that work, almost doubling its size. No, she could not be sure there wasn’t missing money. And in the time it took to investigate and prove one way or the other, her mother would have been… It would have taken time… The mine would already be… He can ask Vanto how these things work, she says finally, spitting her words like a cornered animal, since he trusts Vanto to understand logistics and supply and, presumably, the money that drives both. 

 

Thrawn stops pressing the issue, when she says that. She expects he will circle back to it someday, but she is glad to move on from it for now.

 

They proceed to her father’s collapse — he was a good man, she says, but not suited to the fight. This part is almost easy to tell, for a moment. Only for a moment, though. Thrawn is not overly complimentary about her decision to manipulate a parent out of her way, although he is not overly critical, either.

 

Then he makes her detail her plan for throwing Harchmak to the wolves, which he pronounces moderately clever. Clever, but unwise. He allows that her instincts were understandable, but makes her describe for herself the ways in which her execution was foolhardy. Her errors are these: rushing into Renking’s office half-cocked, hardly knowing Azadi’s role in anything, barely knowing Uvis’ plan, and knowing still less than that about Renking’s own desires.

 

And then they walk through the rest of her conversation with Renking.

 

This goes very, very slowly indeed.

 

He questions every word. Every thought. Every turn. He strips her reasons bare like he is stripping the flesh from her body, and tosses her self-justifications aside like gristle and cracked bone, until the bleeding, pulsing core of it is exposed:

 

She had wanted to leave Lothal.

 

She had hated Lothal. Lothal the dull. Lothal the boring. Lothal the forgotten, the damned and damnable dusty backwater. Yes, she had resigned herself to life there, at a certain point. And then she had shackled herself to it. Her parents, her family, her mine.  _ Hers. Her _ life  _ Her  _ things. When Uvis had threatened those things, she had been furious — but with Uvis, for his temerity, not out of any authentic love for Pryce Mining, or for her homeworld, or for her parents. 

 

She had been angry at the insult, not afraid of the loss.

 

Her parents’ relocation off of Lothal hadn’t been much of a prize. Her parent’s freedom and future employment on any world, she’d barely bothered to ask which, had only been a minimum bar that let her justify to herself the deal she was striking. 

 

When Renking had offered her the chance to leave, she had leapt at it. It had saved her parents, yes, but it had lost them the mine. She had not tried, had not even  _ considered  _ trying, to go back to Azadi. In the course of less than five minutes, she had sold her family’s business — her parent’s livelihoods, their lives, her family’s entire history and legacy — for an entry-level senatorial aideship in a miserable office outpost in a slum, a job that she'd been tossed out of at a moment’s notice, a job that had rewarded her not all and had left her homeless and with nothing to show for herself.

 

She had bargained everything her family had away into failure and loss. Her own failure. Her own loss. Her own incompetent, self-serving stupidity.

 

Yes, she had had some noble notion of reclaiming her family’s place and role, eventually, someday. But it had been amorphous. An unformed thing, a gamble made on visions of her own future power.

 

She had made the deal for her own benefit. 

 

She had lost everything from making it.

 

And Thrawn makes her say it all out loud.

 

After, she feels wrung out, like an old oil rag. She stares vacantly at the wall beyond his shoulder. 

 

“Is there anything else you’d like to know about me, Commander?” she asks.

 

“Many things, Miss Pyrce,” he says evenly, “but I believe we have covered enough for now.”

 

“Have we? How nice.” Her voice is dull and tired; barely a hint of her usual annoyance ekes its way out. Then, shaking herself out of her torpor a little, she looks at his face. “Why?”

 

The meaning is obvious. “Curiosity,” he says simply.

 

“It seemed like a bit more than that.”

 

“Did it? I wished to complete my understanding of your professional history, and to understand fully how you came to be connected to this investigation.” He pauses a beat, then adds: “I confess I am also interested in your ability to analyze the role you play in creating your own circumstances.”

 

“And are you satisfied?”

 

“For now. As to Nightswan, shall I impart your findings to Colonel Yularen and Ensign Vanto, or do you wish to present your work directly?”

 

For a brief moment, Arihnda can barely fathom speaking to another person.

 

Then her pride ressserts itself.

 

“I’d like to tell them myself, if you don’t mind.”

 

“Not at all, Miss Pryce,” he says, sounding almost pleased. He checks his watch — a rather heavy piece, but he makes it look elegant enough. “I will contact Colonel Yularen. Hopefully you can be on your way in two hours or so.”

 

“Be on my way?”

 

“I assume you have business of your own to conduct.”

 

“Not particularly,” she says.

 

“No? Then perhaps Colonel Yularen will have something interesting to tell us about Senator Organa.”

 

She rather hopes the opposite, but doesn’t say so. Instead, she rises from his desk and settles herself on the couch.

 

After a while, she looks over at him — he is back at his place, at his desk, focused on reading something — and says: “Didn’t you ever want to go anywhere? Other than your home?”

 

“Yes. It is not an uncommon condition.” He says this without looking up from his workstation. He keys something on the control panel, goes on reading.

 

“I did intend to get Pryce Mining back,” she says, petulant and sullen and self-justifying.

 

At that, he looks up. “Oh? For how long did that intention last?”

 

She flushes, then goes pale. Looks away. “I still intend to. And I’m going to get something better, now, along with it,” she snaps sullenly.

 

“Indeed.” Something on his desk beeps. “Are you ready to describe your findings?”

 

The door of the office opens. It’s Yularen. He ignores Thrawn, heads directly to Arihnda. He stops in front of her, hesitates a moment, than takes the card out of his pocket, holds it out to her.

 

“It’s completely clean,” he says, something a little strange in his voice. A question, maybe, still unformed.

 

“Thank you,” she says. 

 

“Interesting reading,” Yularen says. It is not only his voice that holds an unformed question. He is looking at her a little strangely, too.

 

Arihnda doesn’t say anything. She slides the card into her pocket.

 

Yularen sits beside her. Over his shoulder, she sees Thrawn watching them with interest. “You know —” Yularen begins, but the door slides open.

 

Vanto, of course.

 

“Ah, Ensign Vanto,” says Thrawn, turning away from Yularen and Arihnda, “have we received our shipments?”

 

“Yes, sir. The rest of the hyperdrive parts and some new couplings for the surface cannons.” He glances towards Arihnda. “And some new wiring for a few of the comms panels; parts for the custom upgrade Jakeeb’s been sketching out. He’s pretty excited about it.” And then, almost politely: “Jakeeb also wanted to send his thanks to you, ma’am.”

 

Which is a comment she can certainly treat like a friendly overture, even if it isn't one. “That's very kind,” she says, leaving it unspecific if she means Jakeeb was kind for saying it, or Vanto for passing it along.

 

“Indeed,” says Thrawn, meaning more or less  _ let’s all move along _ . “Thank you, Ensign Vanto. As it happens, Miss Pryce has confirmed many of our suspicions. She is eager to tell you in person.”

 

“Right,” says Vanto, a little tersely. Then he corrects himself. “Of course, ma’am.”

 

Thrawn stands. “Miss Pyrce,” he says to her.

 

She takes her place in his chair. The charts she’ll want are already queued up for her.

 

“Thank you, Commander,” she says. She flicks through the charts, takes a moment in her mind to review a shortened version of her explanation. A much less personal one. She turns to Vanto, who is standing beside Thrawn, generally professional and only a little bit sullen — something she might not see if she weren’t looking for it. 

 

“It was really your good work that let me see it, you know,” she says to Vanto. It’s a genuine attempt at a pacifying overture. He’s important to Thrawn which means she needs him to at least not despise her, although she thinks it might be a bit much to ask for more than that. And she’s not terribly keen on crawling on her belly, begging for affection, either.

 

Vanto swallows her comment, digests it. He looks exactly like a person might when chewing on bark. “Of course, ma’am,” he says at last.

 

She turns back to the screen. “Well, then. Let me tell you what I see.”

 

The conversation that follows is interesting to Yularen, and to Thrawn, and apparently, after he eases into it, to Vanto — who is clearly enamored of this investigation, a spot of excitement in the drudgery of military service.

 

It is less interesting to Arihnda herself, although she has a part in it. She is still expected to gather intelligence from inside Higher Skies. But the puzzle is solved now, mostly. And Nightswan doesn’t hold much interest for her. His fate belongs to Yularen, or perhaps to Thrawn. Unlike Eli, she derives no satisfaction from being a tag-along — which is certainly how she would feel in his position, and rather how she feels at the moment.

 

The conversation goes on for a while. Yularen decides he would like Arihnda to deploy specialized sniffer software onto Higher Skies’ network. Thrawn wonders if regular reports would not be less risky. Yularen wins, mostly because Arihnda sides with him. Software is more efficient. She’ll report on other things, anyway, and compiling balance sheets is not the way she wants to spend her time. Arihnda feels things might be drawing to a close.

 

And then Vanto talks again. “It would be helpful if we could figure out  _ how  _ they’re getting the money from one place to the other,” he says.

 

“Indeed, Ensign Vanto,” says Thrawn, “I agree. Perhaps Miss Pryce can be of assistance there, as well.” He raises his eyebrows slightly at her.

 

“I – yes, Commander. Of course,” she says. She narrowly voids gritting her teeth when she says it.

 

Vanto doesn’t look particularly pleased about that, himself. Arihnda feels a wordless sentiment that amounts more or less to  _ serves you right for talking. _

 

After that, things wind down rather quickly. Yularen seems as if he wants to speak with her again, but she begs off as quickly as she can. Thrawn summons Barlin, some polite words are exchanged, and Arihnda is guided off the  _ Thunder Wasp _ .

 

On the trip down to the surface, she takes Bail’s data card out of her pocket and turns it over in her fingers, contemplatively.  _ Interesting reading,  _ Yularen’s voice comes to her mind. Yularen would have noticed if something was hidden in the letters. Yularen would have said.  _ Interesting reading. _

 

Barlin sees her off with kind words, and Arihnda returns them almost more from natural rapport than practiced manners.

 

She goes to Juahir’s apartment before going to the hotel. Juahir is out, which is fine.

 

Arihnda packs most of her clothes, and all of her shower things, and takes them to the hotel.

 

When she returns to the hotel room, she does three things immediately: she puts her bag down, she sits down at the table, and she puts the data card on the table in front of her.  _ Interesting reading.  _

 

She feels, suddenly, extremely tired.

 

She calls Thrawn.

 

“Miss Pryce.”

 

“Yes.”

 

A moment of strange silence. Then he says: “You called.” It is half question, half gentle prompt.

 

“I did. I —” Silence again. She stares at the data card.  _ Interesting reading.  _ “I wanted to know if you were still planning to come over tonight.”

 

The silence stretches just a little longer and then, clearly picking his way along, feeling out the nature of her reticence, he says: “I was, yes.”

 

“Right,” she says. “I just wanted to —” And there's a part of her that wants to tell him not to come, after all. That never wants to see him again. But only a part. She says: “I wanted to know what time.”

 

There is an even longer, even stranger silence here. Then: “Eight.”

 

“Right. Alright.”

 

“Would you prefer something different?”

 

“No, just — no, that's fine.” 

 

And eight is not really that far off. She’d gotten to the Navy docks at roughly 1000 standard hours, met Barlin, had her disastrous encounter with Vanto at around 1030, buried herself in the Nightswan records for roughly the next two hours, spent more or less the next two hours having Thrawn shred the fundamental myths of her self-conception, slogged through the next conversation with Vanto and Yularen, itself falling just shy of forty-five minutes, then gone to Juahir’s — it is past six six already. Not so much time to kill.

 

She considers reading the… whatever it is. Interesting reading, but she has even less interest than usual in other people’s opinions of her. She still has Thrawn’s voice echoing in her head —  _ was that the whole reason? was there nothing else? think a little harder —  _ and she is still seeing things after-images of Vanto’s and Yularen’s faces. She might hardly have cared, a week ago — or rather, she would have cared in a different way. But now, she feels she has taxed almost to its limit her ability to listen to anyone else’s descriptions of her at all.

 

She rises, and paces — not exactly like a trapped animal, but not quite like an agitated hunter, either. In a sense, she is pacing off the distance from her mood yesterday, the lovely way it had felt to be woken by Thrawn sitting on the bed beside her, to her mood today, her bitter desire to tell him to stay away, and trying, for perhaps the first time in her life, to truly understand her own sentiments. She doesn't make much progress. 

 

Her thoughts become trapped in strange loops. She feels a flicker of something like guilt, which is sort of about Vanto and sort of about Lothal, which is twisted up with a queer spark of something like homesickness, familiar but most unwelcome. 

 

Eight comes quicker than she expects.

 

He lets himself into the room without pretense.

 

“Miss Pryce,” he says by way of greeting.

 

“Commander.” They are on opposite sides of the room, and she feels the distance keenly.

 

And she feels an absence, too.

 

She  _ wants _ to want him but she does not, at the moment,  _ want him _ . It is even worse than the anxiety that followed her visit to Doctor Carteret — she feels like she's working hard to hold on to the little ember of desire that constitutes almost all of the good feeling, the simple enjoyment, she's been able to experience since Ottlis brought her to Ghadi. A fragile, precious thing: the sense of good feeling she has from being with Thrawn, or thinking about him. The good feeling she has when he touches her. The good feeling she has from him, in general. Anything that unsettles it makes her feel — makes her feel strange, not in a way that she has a word for.

 

She lets the silence stretch, and he tilts his head. “Did you read the materials from Senator Organa?” He uses a finely tuned, half-light tone: not quite ironic, not quite sincere, very carefully investigative.

 

His voice stings the sore, abraded place in her chest.  _ Think a little harder.  _

 

“I haven’t read it, no.”

 

“Shall we look at it together?”

 

“No.” And that comes out sharp and extremely decisive.

 

He straightens his head, raises an eyebrow for just a moment. “No,” he repeats. He looks at her a moment longer, then: “Shall we discuss your role in our investigation moving forward?”

 

Her  _ role.  _ Partner. Collaborative, helpful,  _ junior _ partner. Coordinating with Vanto, probably. Tagging along. “No,” she snarls, the word spilling forth sudden and wrathful.

 

“No,” he echoes her again, carefully blank. “What would you prefer to do?”

 

She would prefer to feel the good feelings. Maybe, she decides, it’s like shaking something off. Maybe it’s like… like exercise. If you start a little stiff or sore that’s not the end of the galaxy, as long as you clear your mind, stay present in the moment, and move ahead. Lose yourself in what you’re doing. Maybe — “Did you come here just to talk?”

 

He raises his eyebrow again; it stays arched this time. “Ah,” he says. “I see.”

 

Which is decidedly not the response she’d hoped for. She feels a rush of heat — she doesn’t put any of the names of its component parts to it, doesn’t admit that it’s a blend of shame and rage and sadness — bloom in her belly, unfurl in her chest, rush up over her face. Instead, she snarls again: “Or you can leave, if you’re no longer interested in the part of our arrangement that  _ you  _ suggested. I’ll be sure to tell you about the letters after I’ve read them.”

 

The damnable eyebrow climbs a little higher. “How generous of you.”

 

She feels her lips twisted and pursed tight against her teeth, feels the ugly mask of tension around her brows and eyes. Anger. Shame. Frustration. “Unless you have another suggestion.”

 

“No,” he says mildly, brow still coolly arched. “But yours is not particularly clearly thought —”

 

“I don’t need you to tell me how to think!”

 

And there’s a very dead silence between them for a moment, after that. 

 

She holds her hands, balled into fists, resolutely by her sides, and fights down any urge to do anything that feels like backing down.

 

_ Both  _ of his brows are raised now. “I see,” he says.

 

She takes a deep breath, nostrils flaring.

 

“Perhaps we should try again tomorrow,” he says coldly. He gives her a long look, up and down, after that, but doesn’t speak again. Instead, he turns on his heel.

 

She makes no move to stop him.

 

And then she is alone.

 

For a moment, she only stands, rigid but with a strange sensation of swaying and spinning. Then she crosses to the place where he stood, and then barrels past it to the door — stops with her hand outstretched, stops just short of opening it to the hall, to do… What, exactly? Stride after him, screaming curses, until her voice echoing in the hall matches the angry ringing in her ears?

 

She slaps the wall instead, a venomous strike that serves only to make her hand smart. She takes another sharp, angry breath, and runs her hands through her hair.

 

For a single, weird instant she has an overwhelming desire to go back to the apartment, which in her fury and frustration for a second once more flashes through her mind as  _ home.  _ To lay on the couch, silent, and let Juahir’s bubbling, one-sided banter wash over her until her own troubles are washed away —

 

Instead, she turns back into the room, marches past the table, and opens the little temperature-controlled liquor cabinet on the far side of the room.  _ Driller can get charged for this, too _ , she thinks nastily, downing a small bottle of Savareen brandy.

 

It burns like hell, and she almost coughs when she’s done. She tosses the bottle aside — it makes a soft little clunk hitting the carpeted floor, but doesn’t break — and grabs another from the cabinet.

 

And then she stops.

 

She takes a deep breath. She feels, already, a little looser -- no less upset, but certainly less rigid and tight. She takes another breath, deep, and puts the bottle back. She’s never enjoyed being drunk. And she doesn’t particularly want to keep drinking.

 

She briefly considers trying to go to bed, but she knows herself well enough to know when she won't be able to sleep.

 

She considers, then, going for a walk. The richer parts of Coruscant have perfectly lovely public spaces, and the skies are beautiful, even at night. It might clear her head.

 

But it will require her to leave the room, which will… She doesn’t know, or rather chooses not to analyze, why that is so unappealing: so long as she remains exiled here, so long as she remains imprisoned with her own distresses, those distresses will continue to feel real. Powerful. Legitimate. 

 

She will not leave the room.

 

Instead, she decides to read the letters after all. It is at least, she tells herself, something to do.

 

She scoops the empty brandy bottle off the floor and throws it down the gracefully-disguised trash shoot in the wall, then sits at the table and slots the card into her data pad.

 

There are more letters than she expects. And at first, they are simply… odd. An odd experience. Reading them brings up no particular emotion, or at least not the emotions she expect. Not the ones she suspects Bail was hoping she’d feel. At least, not at first.

 

Most of them are less about her personally than they are about the agencies, or the people, who had failed the various writers before they’d brought their problems to Arihnda — or before Arihnda had sought their problems out. 

 

_ Hello,  _ she used to say when someone would open a door for her,  _ I’m from Senator Renking’s office. I’m just checking around, making sure our Lothal citizens are getting everything they need — how have things been for you? Coruscant treating you alright? Anything I can help with?  _ And there had almost always been something she could help with.

 

It had been exhausting.

 

Almost all the letters —  _ almost  _ all — are from the people she helped while she worked for Renking. The letters are often angry, sometimes sad, occasionally plaintive. They are directed at the bureaucratic mechanisms which  _ should  _ have done for them whatever Arihnda herself had ended up doing. Most are laced with frustration, and bitter fatalism. Many of them are only semi-literate. This applies especially to the ones written by Rodians; their population had been well-integrated on Lothal, but in most (though not all) cases they hadn’t needed to master Basic quite as well as Coruscant demanded. For some, that had been the very thing that made Lothal  _ home. _

 

There is a letter from Daisie, of course, sent to a housing authority office that wasn’t even the right one to write to. It is both angry and sad, but mostly frustrated, and says, in sum:  _ if Arihnda hadn’t come by I’d still be living in a swamp. Fire Chesna, please. If you care. _

 

Of course, no one had cared.

 

Arihnda herself hadn’t even followed up with Daisie, after moving to Bartanish Four. And why should she have? Daisie hadn’t been her job anymore. Daisie hadn’t been her problem. Daisie hadn’t been useful.

 

Arihnda swallows against nothing, for no reason she understands, and goes on reading.

 

Although Arihnda is often a background character in the letters — or a third-act deus ex machina — the writers still paint a very particular picture. They render in strokes both broad and particular an image of a woman Arihnda hardly recognizes. The woman is friendly. Open. Likeable, approachable, dependable. She is tireless, bright and energetic, dedicated and clever, a bit witty, a careful listener. She remembers you and your problems, and more than that she  _ cares  _ about your problems as if they were her own. She is sincere, serious, and straightforward. She can be trusted to  _ fix  _ things. And she has clearly given to each of the writers what they feel a government official  _ should _ give: a voice.

 

Which had been her intent, sort of. She’d intended to make herself liked, trusted, and relied upon. She’d thought people saw her, when she solved problems for them, as maternal or sisterly or, sometimes, a kind of savior — and she’d  _ intended  _ to give that impression. It was the only way to do her job  _ successfully.  _ To do her job  _ well.  _ To get ahead: to be enough of a presence, or problem, that Renking would promote her up, and up, and up, until she was no longer bothering the fancy-hats will little people’s little preoccupations, but was helping them with their own bigger and better puzzles, instead.

 

But she hadn’t realized the impression would be so  _ real.  _ That she would be… Somehow, she’d suspected on some level that people around her understood it was all a kind of game. She hadn’t realized that the facade she crafted would be  _ believed _ . As if the woman they were describing had been a real person, a flesh and blood person who lived and breathed and —

 

In the weird uncertainty ripped open by Thrawn’s brutal examination of her flaws and failures it makes her feel —

 

She doesn’t know what it makes her feel.

 

She turns instead to the problem of why Bail wanted her to read them at all.

 

She thinks perhaps Thrawn has a point. She can see how these letters might be a way of trying to persuade her to the rebels’ cause. If these letters had made her feel… If she found herself craving a way to have this impact on lives again, and expressed that desire to Bail, then perhaps he might offer rebellion as away to satisfy that desire. Certainly the rebels portray themselves as the saviors, helpers, defenders, protectors, of the misbegotten, the poor, the benighted, the downtrodden.

 

Or maybe Bail wants to persuade her that the rebellion offers a chance for her work to be truly valued, more than it was by Renking, or is at Higher Skies. Maybe Bail wants to persuade her that the rebellion offers a chance to work in a place where she can see her value reflected back at her by what Bail had called “the people you worked for.” 

 

But already she’d known people valued her work. Juahir had told her as much —  _ twenty calls wondering why you’re not in the office.  _ It was just that the people making those calls had seemed… They had seemed like more problems. More work.  _ Help me, fix me, save me, feed me —  _ they’d been chores, all of them, like children with noses that wouldn’t stop running.

 

And if her work had meant so much to these people, if they had been  _ so  _ moved,  _ so  _ grateful,  _ so  _ touched, if they’re all cared so kriffing much, where had they been after Ascension week? Why hadn’t they — if her help had meant so much to so many, why hadn’t anyone sought her out, offered to help  _ her  _ after Renking had tossed her out of his employ like a bit of trash tossed over the side of a speeder? 

 

The rational explanation comes to her in the form of a litany of obvious points and bitter errors, like the self-examination Thrawn had extracted from her earlier in the afternoon. What help could anyone have given? Almost none. What help would she have accepted? Even less.

 

_ They could at least have reached out to me, _ she thinks with a sudden flash of anger. If she’d done so much kriffing good for them, they could have at least tried, instead of letting her vanish like a dust mote in an lower-level ventilation shaft. They could have sent notes. Called. Just to see where she’d gone, at least. Just to  _ ask  _ about her. To see if she was alright. Could have stopped by and — 

 

_ Stopped by where?  _ the cool, rational little voice that she’d been forced to use about herself for most of the afternoon whispers in the back of her mind.  _ It wasn’t like you gave out your home contact information. Bartanish Four’s office was gone.  _ Or maybe they’d called Juahir, like they’d used to do when she was running Renking’s errands. And if they had Juahir hadn’t told her —  _ But you told her not to talk about, didn’t you, Arihnda?  _ the little voice whispers.  _ And besides,  _ the voice goes on,  _ would you reach out to someone who got fired overnight and then vanished without a word? _

 

She hadn’t shared anything with anyone, she realizes. She’d just… walked away. Beyond keeping her problems to herself — from both shame and anger — she hadn’t even  _ tried _ to maintain the most basic of friendly relations with her neighbors. Hadn’t offered a sociable word to anyone, hadn’t smiled at anyone, hadn’t shared a cup of caf with anyone. She’d tried to hold herself apart from them and above them when she’d worked among them, and after Renking had closed her office in Bartanish Four, she’d turned her back on all her former clients as surely as she’d once turned her back on Daisie. It was not at all the behavior of the person they’d all seemed to describe in the letters.

 

It was much more like the behavior of a woman who sells her family’s generations-old business for a self-indulgent, half-cocked shot at politics.

 

And who reaches out to a person like that?

 

When Arinda finally goes to bed, no more clear in her own mind on what to make of any of it, she goes to sleep angry. Angry at Thrawn, for shaking her certainty in herself. Angry at Juahir for ever having taken calls about her. Angry at Bail for wanting her to read these stupid letters. Angry at everyone who’d written them for being so naïve and so useless to her. Angry at Renking for firing her. Angry at Yularen for calling it all  _ interesting.  _

 

Angry, too, at herself. She’s not even completely sure for what.

 

She wakes the next morning less angry, but no less confused. Her head is still buzzing with a problem she can’t quite unravel — but strangely, for her, she can at least admit it. 

 

She lays quietly, and thinks about the problem of thinking, and decides she needs to talk to someone. She is not really in the habit of sharing her problems with anyone, or talking through them. But she’s found talking to Thrawn to be… overall, useful. He is probably right about the value of sharing information and receiving alternative interpretations and outside advice. Ultimately her decisions will be her own, but making those decisions locked only in her own head… But after yesterday, she still doesn’t want to talk to  _ Thrawn _ . She is sure Bail would love to discuss the letters with her, but his ambiguous intentions are part of the problem. Which really leaves her only one other person. She thinks he’ll probably be up.

 

And when she places a call through the universal connection system, she finds she’s right.

 

“Miss Pryce — everything alright?”

 

“Yes, Colonel. I’m sorry to bother you so early —”

 

“It’s fine. Something Thrawn can’t help with?”

 

“Not exactly. I was wondering — this data card from Senator Organa — you read it?”

 

There is a slightly awkward pause. Then: “Yes. Standard protocol for unknown intelligence —”

 

“I understand. It’s alright. I’m very grateful. But I was calling because…” And this time the awkward silence comes from her. Then: “I read it last night. I read it and — and I don’t know what to make of it. Why Senator Organa sent it, I mean: what he wants and how I should… I was wondering if I could talk with you about it.”

 

Another silence, one that fills her with some dread. Maybe she’s played a bad hand. Then: “Certainly. It’s no trouble. You’d like to talk about it in person, I’m guessing?”

 

“Yes, please. Can you come by my room? We can have breakfast. I’ll add it to Driller’s tab.”

 

It takes him a little while to arrive. She’s ordered room service, showered, and changed twice by the time he arrives. She wants to look like a person who is spending a day in, but also a person who always looks a bit professional. She thinks he likes understatement; she chooses something earth-toned, something she might have worn at Pryce Mining.

 

When he arrives, and knocks, which is out of deference to the fact that this space is truly somehow hers now, she opens the door and thinks immediately that her guess about his tastes is confirmed by his own dress. 

 

He is dressed in clothes that are as close to a uniform as she she supposes he can get: pragmatic, dull colors, but… comfortable. A little more relaxed than a uniform would be. Clothing that would not look out of place on Lothal — strange, she muses, for someone with such social clout. 

 

“Miss Pryce,” he says it with a tone that seems to be a blend of good manners and curiosity. “Good morning.”

 

She may have let him stand in the door a moment too long. “Good morning, Colonel.” She steps aside for him. “Thank you for coming. I’ve got caf, fruit, toast, nuna bacon — I wasn’t sure what you wanted so I just ordered their two-person spread.”

 

“Does it come with Anoat oats?” he asks, moving past her, towards the table.

 

“Yes.”

 

“And Juna berries?” He is close enough that he can see for himself; he is clearly making small-talk.

 

She plays along. “Yes.”

 

“Then we’re in business, I think. How do you take your caf? Blue cream?”

 

“Straight, actually,” she says. She’d never gotten a taste for blue cream. The thickened, heavily sweet, high-fat Bantha milk had always been a little too much for her.

 

“You’re an easy customer,” he says with a mild, slightly fond smile, handing her a freshly-poured cup. “Now I, personally, usually start my free days with anoat oats and berries — Juna berries if Melina remembered to order them, whatever else we have if not. What do you take?”

 

On free days Arihnda wakes only a little later than usual, and sips black caf and picks at dry toast and reads. Mostly she reads the news she didn’t have time to read during the week. Long form stories, sometimes. Or she reads histories. Or she checks the prices in the metal markets. She doesn’t like to feel behind or out of step when she’s at the office, and she uses her free time to try and get ahead. Somehow this doesn’t seem like the right thing to tell him. Not endearing, probably. She says: “I think it comes with meiloorun. I’ll just stick to that.”

 

“Meiloorun. Orange melon of some sort, isn’t it? Yes. Melon. Here it is.” He serves that for her, too. Grandfatherly. Kind. Hands her a plate. Then, he fixes his own breakfast. Anoat oats, juna berries, caf with blue cream. Then he sits. “So, shall we eat?”

 

She hesitates. “Colonel, I called because —”

 

“We’ll get to it. We haven’t had a chance to talk at all, you and I.”

 

He lets that hang, until she says: “No, I suppose we haven’t.” Another beat of silence and she adds: “Do you want to talk about anything particular?”

 

“Not anything particular, no. Do you like Coruscant?”

 

So this is a free-form interview. A way to get a better sense of her. That’s fine. She sits. She takes a sip of caf. It’s much better than what she usually makes for herself. “Yes,” she says. “I like Coruscant a great deal.”

 

“More than home, I imagine. You seem the type.”

 

She almost agrees, then catches herself: “What type, Colonel?”

 

He hesitates a moment, too: what was intended as friendliness has landed wrong, and he looks for the next best-mannered option. “Ambitious,” he says finally. He makes it sound almost good. “Not much chance for advancement in the Outer Rim.”

 

“No,” she allows, deciding to be honest and conversational herself, “there’s really not. And yes, I came to Coruscant for my ambitions, you’re right. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with that.”

 

“Nothing wrong with it at all,” Yularen agrees. “Been a bit of a struggle though, I imagine.”

 

“A bit, yes.” She takes a bite of melon. Meiloorun is sweeter than what she’d normally eat, but not offensively so. As fruit goes, it’s not terrible.

 

Yularen adds more berries to the bowl before him. He, apparently, has a sweet tooth. “Well, you’ve got the right people watching you now, you know.”

 

She smiles, aiming for friendliness. “Do you mean you?”

 

“I do indeed, Miss Pyrce. It’s not every ambitious young climber who gets to have a private breakfast with the Deputy Director of the ISB.”

 

“No,” she agrees. “But it’s not every ambitious young climber who brings you a local rebel cell, a bushel of dirty moffs, and a lead on an criminal mastermind, either.” She doesn’t see a reason to undersell herself.

 

Yularen smiles at that, too. “No. Nor everyone who gets a file like that from Senator Organa.”

 

“No,” says Arihnda slowly. She sits back as well. The mirroring is not intentional, although she has used that trick from time to time. She frowns. “No. I don’t know — I don’t understand the point of it.” If she is going to try being honest, she may as well dive in.

 

Yularen raises his eyebrows. “No?”

 

She frowns more deeply. “No. Thrawn — the Commander, I mean — thinks that Bail might be… That this might be his version of a recruitment pitch, for the rebellion. Look at all the good you did, come and do that good again, that sort of thing.”

 

Yularen looks a little uncomfortable, shifts in his chair, looks away from her for a while. When he looks back, it’s resolve, not openness, on his face. “I wouldn’t worry too much about that,” he says. “Stick to Higher Skies, don’t worry about what Bail does or doesn’t think about the rebels.”

 

Arihnda just manages to keep her face neutral. “Of course, Colonel. Should —”

 

“I think you should feel free to develop your own relationship with him. He’s — I’d encourage you to, if you have the opportunity. But don’t go looking for trouble, not there. And don’t get drawn into anything.”

 

She tilts her head a little. “You don’t think Thrawn is correct?”

 

Yularen sighs. Not the reaction she was expecting. Then he says: “Miss Pryce, in my line of work, there’s no shortage of troubles. I’ve found my life is easier if I don’t go actively looking to  _ invent _ them. Especially not —” he clears his throat. “I’m sure if there’s something for me to know about Bail, I’ll know it.”

 

Arihnda frowns again, a sharp line she can feel between her brows. “But if Senator Organa is —”

 

“I don’t know what Senator Organa is or is not doing,” says Colonel Yularen. “And neither do you.” It comes out sharp, impatient. It’s a tone that says  _ I have answered this already.  _ She can sense a little of how he handles his day-to-day job. Grandfatherly, yes, but very firm.  _ The topic is now closed.  _

 

“I’m sorry, Colonel,” she says. “I didn’t mean to overstep.”

 

He relaxes a little. “Not overstepping at all. I appreciate your enthusiasm. I’d just appreciate it if you didn’t go borrowing trouble, as my mother used to say.” The he smiles a little wryly. “It’ll probably find you sooner or later, anyway.”

 

“Probably,” she agrees, mimicking his wry humor intentionally this time. She’s not quite done with her topic yet, though. “So you don’t think Senator Organa sent this out of…” she hovers over the unchosen word for a moment. “…Malice?” she says finally.

 

Yularen frowns. “Bail?” A first name. That’s informative. “No,” he says.

 

She leans forward a little. “You’re sure?”

 

“Yes,” Yularen says. And for a moment, he looks his age. Then he says: “You know, I knew Bail. Years ago.”

 

“During the Clone Wars?” asks Arihnda.

 

“Yes. We served together on a few missions, in fact.”

 

“Did you really?” And that’s a very good opening, she thinks. “Can you tell me about him?”

 

Yularen sits back a little. “I can, actually. How much do you know about the Battle of Christophsis?”

 

Arihnda doesn’t know much, and when she tells him, he takes the opening to recite a bit of memoir. It’s an interesting story. Bail comes off well in it. That Yularen liked him — was impressed with his fortitude, rectitude, and bravery — is obvious. “The Empire needs more men like that,” he says at last.

 

Arihnda does not say  _ anyone in the Senate can tell you he doesn’t want to be in the Empire.  _ Instead she says: “You transferred from the the Navy to the ISB, didn’t you?”

 

“Indeed I did.”

 

“You resigned a commission as Admiral to become a Colonel.”

 

A wry smile. “And you’d like to know why?”

 

“I would, in fact.”

 

Yularen nods. Something faraway comes into his face. Then: “The Clone Wars — I served the Republic. I believed in the Republic. But that war happened because the Republic…” He trails off. Then he says: “As far as I am concerned, Empire is the Republic. Not a popular position, maybe, but that’s the way I think of it. The Empire is what we built to save what was left of the Republic— and to rebuild what was lost. To make people’s lives safe, secure, protected.” There is another long pause. “The Clone Wars… What happened to the Republic…” His gaze goes somewhere very, very far away again. Then, he focuses back on Arihnda. When he speaks, his voice is clear and direct, without self-doubt, or hesitation. “What happened to the Republic happened from the inside out,” he says. “I don’t know how it happened. In the Navy, you face out more than in. But I never want to see something like that happen again. And the best I can do to prevent it is to defend the internal strength of the Empire. I don’t want to live through another civil war. I don’t go looking for trouble. I don’t seek out people to denounce. We could stand to be a little more receptive to critique, I think — again, probably not a popular position, but it’s the one I choose to take. But I take the internal stability of the Empire seriously. And I’ve chosen to devote my life to it.”

 

Arihnda knows she is supposed to find something very compelling about people speaking honestly from the depth of their convictions. Truthfully, she doesn’t. But she thinks his answer is informative. And she thinks the way it contrasts with his insistence on turning a blind eye to Bail’s activities is even more informative. “I think I understand,” she says. And then, to be sociable, she asks: “Do you want some more caf?”

 

“Oh, no. I never have more than a cup on off days. I’ll take some of that blue cream, though.”

 

Drinking dessert with breakfast is not her idea of a good way to start the day, but it’s not her place to say. “My father has a sweet tooth, too,” she says instead. There’s a companionable feel to the exchange when she hands him a cup of heavy periwinkle cream and her thanks her for it. And then she returns to her topic. “If you don’t mind my asking, Colonel, why do  _ you  _ think Senator Organa sent this file? Why do you think he  _ made  _ it?”

 

Yularen stills. “Made it — that’s an easy question. You should be able to answer it yourself.”

 

And she can: “Of course. He was curious after I asked him to help Th — the Commander.”

 

“I imagine he was. Bold move of you, too.”

 

Bold move. Reckless, he means. He isn’t entirely wrong. It was a choice made on an emotional high, she sees in retrospect. She could have managed the same thing by plying her own minor naval contacts much more discreetly. But some part of her had wanted… In retrospect, she sees it had been a chance to show off. A chance to show  _ Thrawn  _ to someone else, more specifically.  _ Look who I have, look who picked me, look who likes me —  _ She clamps down on the thought, and on the and the bitter confusion she feels thinking it, just in time to avoid blushing embarrassingly. 

 

“Yes,” she says. “I supposed it was a bit reckless. So, Senator Organa was curious. But what did he want me to  _ do  _ with this?”

 

Yularen gives it a minute of thought. Apparently, real thought. Then he says: “Bail is the sort of person who might hold up a mirror like this because he wants you to see something in it.”

 

Arihnda raises an eyebrow, smiles a little, very wry. “Any idea what he wants me to see?”

 

Yularen’s body language changes just a little, then. The change gives the impression that he has taken a deep breath. “Possibly a different way of looking at yourself.”

 

And that strips the wryness out of her instantly. The obvious subtext, which is not even that far  _ sub  _ anything, is:  _ possibly a less unpleasant way of being yourself.  _ She can’t meet his eyes, or even look at his face, for a minute. Then she clenches her jaw, just a little, and turns back to him and says, coolly: “And what’s your best guess, Colonel, for why he wants me to look so hard at myself? If not to persuade me to do something specific with my time?”

 

Yularen raises his eyebrows, purses his lips. It’s a dicey moment. He might give her real thought, and a real answer — or he might tell her not to keep sticking her nose where he’s already told her not to put it. Finally, he says: “Bail likes to see people doing good. He likes to inspire people to do good. If I had to guess, he’s hoping you’ll be inspired to do some good on your own. Of your own choosing.” There is one beat of silence, and he adds: “There’s plenty of good to be done from inside the Empire, Arihnda. And not everyone who criticizes us thinks that everything we do is necessarily bad. I think if you talked to Bail about it you might find he actually agrees on that.”

 

Arihnda sips at her caf, then says: “Well, I suppose I could ask him. Thank you, Colonel.”

 

Then he says, grandfatherly again: “Of course. And you know, a lot of people would kill for a file of endorsements like that.” Which is a very kind way of framing the letters, indeed. It is almost, but not quite, another invitation to ask him about positions at COMPNOR, the superstructure within which the ISB is housed. He allows one more beat of silence, and then says: “More caf? It really is good with the blue cream. You should try it.”

 

By the time Yularen leaves, half the day is gone.

 

And Arihnda is still not sure what to make of the letters. She thinks that Thrawn is probably more right than not, even if the idea that Bail is trying to turn her makes her feel used. And she’s tired of being used.

 

But Yularen  _ had  _ told her to develop her own relationship with Bail, if she had the opportunity. And of course it’s possible that Yularen is right, that Bail is not manipulating her in any specific way, that he only wants her to… To be a little more beneficial to the people around her, in her own way. 

 

And she is certainly free to investigate the possibilities on her own.

 

She sends a message through the universal connection system, just as she had sent one a week ago to Thrawn. When she gets a reply, it is equally as positive: she is invited to join the Senator and his guests at his private apartments for lunch.

 

His guests are Amilyn, who smiles her brilliant, lopsided smile at Arihnda, and an older, pot-bellied man with a mustache who nods hello in a business-like fashion. Arihnda thinks he looks like Yularen, just twenty pounds heavier, with hair that is yellow-grey instead of white. 

 

“Arihnda,” says Bail, carrying a tray of some iced drink in a frosted glass pitcher and matching cups, “please join us.” A droid follows him with another, larger tray — food on that one. Apparently it is a sit-on-couches-and-pick-at-snacks sort of lunch.

 

The man who looks like Yularen turns out to be a naval officer, recently retired. His name is Gilder Varth, and he is a little brusque, but not intentionally unpleasant.

 

Amilyn still seems shy and overwhelmed. She smiles, relieved, when Arihnda thanks her for the candies.

 

“I hope there weren’t too many,” Amilyn says. “They’re meant to be shared; that’s why they come in pairs.”

 

“As it happens I did share them with someone,” Arihnda says. Somewhere in the back of her mind she is aware that there is a touch of innuendo to this, but she doesn’t feel salacious talking about it. The fact itself feels simple and direct, and there is something pleasant about sharing it — even if it does make her feel a queer pang of loneliness. “They were much appreciated,” she adds, and that is mostly simple and direct, too. 

 

“Oh, perfect!” says Amilyn. “Did you like the same ones? That’s the point — they’re supposed to cause discussion.” Her mouth twists a little unhappily. “Everything on Gatalenta is supposed to cause contemplation and discussion.”

 

Arihnda picks her way a little carefully through and answer: “My friend tends to… keep their own opinions private, about most things.” Over Amilyn’s shoulder, she can see Bail turn from Gilder briefly and raise an eyebrow. She ignores him, and says to Amilyn: “I can tell you which ones I liked, though.”

 

And Amilyn brightens again at that — and brightens still more when it’s revealed that she and Arihnda share the same taste in sweets: something herbaceous, rich, and heightened by the sharp contrast of salt. 

 

Bail draws the whole group back together, orchestrates a pleasant and deeply uninformative exchange of small talk. Gilder is informative to Arihnda anyway, in spite of Bail’s efforts to manage him. Gilder is not enamored of the Empire, left the navy because of it. “Too much time worrying about rich men’s shipping interests, not enough effort restoring security to minor planets. The Clone Wars ruined life for so many, and we’re only rebuilding life for the few.”

 

“That’s what the Senate is meant to be fixing, Gilder,” says Bail.

 

“The Senate could work a little faster,” Gilder shoots back.

 

“My friend, please — you’ll put our new Apprentice Senator off the whole idea of Democracy if you’re not more careful.”

 

It’s still a good opening. “You’re joining the Apprentice Senate, Amilyn?” Arihnda says.

 

Amilyn blushes. “Next year. I’m meant to be getting an idea of what Coruscant will be like — I’m leaving tomorrow, actually.”

 

Now that is curious, Arihnda decides. What was the point, then, of Bail putting Arihnda and Amilyn together? Either she was wrong about his intentions, or Bail Organa knows how to play a very long game.

 

There’s not much to the rest of the lunch — just more small talk, pleasant but dull. Bail arranges for Gilder and Amilyn to depart together; Gilder will give the young woman a tour of the important naval sites she should know. They won’t be able to go  _ in _ anywhere of course, but Amilyn will get a sense of where things are.

 

And Bail will have a chance to talk to Arihnda privately.

 

“So,” he says when they’re alone, “does our friend have more or less of a sweet tooth than you?”

 

Arihnda turns abruptly pink, then recovers herself. “I don’t know, Senator.”

 

Bail grins. “No? Okay, then. What did you want to talk about?”

 

“I had a question, actually.”

 

“Oh? About anything specific?”

 

“Yes. I was wondering why you wanted me to read those letters.” She says it gracelessly, and without pretense.

 

Bail’s face changes: the smile fades, there is something like disappointment, then resolution, then acceptance. “You don’t have a guess?”

 

“I really don’t.”

 

He nods at her, like he’s just understood something. “Okay. That’s fair.” He pours himself another glass of the iced drink — a tart, fruity mix with a spiced kick — and sits back. “I’ll tell you. Are you going to listen?”

 

Arihnda lets her surprise show, then reins it back. The first part is not intentional; the second part is very willful. “Yes, Senator,” she says.

 

“I think you took a position with Higher Skies to get a toe in the door of Imperial Politics. Most people who work for advocacy groups do, except for the true believers. You don’t strike me as one of those. It’s not an insult, just an observation. Am I right?”

 

She bites her cheek, then answers: “More or less, Senator.”

 

“More or less. Okay. I think it’s more, but we’re not gonna argue about it. So: you’re a hard worker, bright, clever, looking to get into your preferred field. You have a job you don’t love, but you give it your all: eager as a glimmerfish. I like that in a person. So, a week ago you come to me in the middle of a workday, not on behalf of your employer, and ask me for a favor. You ask me to spend political capital — not much, but some — to help someone whose work is completely unrelated to the business of Higher Skies. You ask for something that puts you in my debt, and has nothing to do with your job. And I have to ask myself why.”

 

“So you hunted down the letters to try and figure it out? Were you expecting to find some connection between Commander Thrawn and myself?”

 

Bail puts his glass down. “You have to learn to listen better, Arihnda. That’s how  _ you’d  _ think about the problem. It’s not how  _ I  _ think about the problem. I wasn’t finished.” 

 

Arihnda shifts back a little in her chair, which in this context is her version of  _ sorry.  _

 

“Right,” says Bail. “My first question wasn’t if a connection existed between you and Thrawn. I have my own guess about that. My question was what  _ you  _ were hoping to get out of helping him. Why you wanted to do it.”

 

“And the letters helped explain it?”

 

“You know, my daughter likes to interrupt me all the time, too. No. I’m still not done. So I thought about you. I thought about what you used to do for a job, and the job you have now, and the way you went out on a limb to try and do something outside your job — and I thought, if she’s doing this when she’s supposed to be working, her job must not be that interesting to her anymore. So you tell me, Arihnda, since you like guessing, what I thought immediately after that.”

 

“You know I want to be in politics. You assume I’ve lost interest in my job. You see me taking some sort of gamble — you assume I am looking to effectuate a transfer to a new job.”

 

“Exactly. See, you  _ can  _ think like someone else when you want to. So: I assume you want to move to another job. Do you think the letters tell me what kind of job you want?”

 

“No.”

 

“Good. And they don’t. Do you think they tell me how you’ll behave in whatever job you get?”

 

And that’s dicey. But she goes for the truth: “No, probably not.”

 

“Definitely not, people change over time. So what do they tell me?”

 

“How I have behaved in the past. What the people I worked for thought of me. If I was good at my job. How I might behave again.”

 

“Exactly, yes. All of those. So now tell me: why would I care about having you read them?”

 

And that requires a moment’s thought. She wants more information. “We disagreed about who I really worked for, when I was working in Renking’s office.”

 

“Yes, we did.”

 

“Had you planned on having me read them before you realized our difference of opinion?”

 

Bail smiles again. “Good question. No, I hadn’t.”

 

And now she thinks she knows the answer. “If I am moving to a different, political, job you want me to keep the people you think I really work for in mind.”

 

“Well, you’re clearly planning to move to a different job, but we can keep pretending if you want,” Bail says, picking up his glass again. “Anyway, yes, that’s why I wanted you to read the letters. Whatever you do, I want you to do it mindfully — I want you to be mindful of the people whose lives you’ll touch, and what impact you’ll have on them. Obviously I can’t control what you choose to do, or how you choose to do it, but I can do what’s in my power to encourage you to do it thoughtfully.” He takes a sip of his drink, then offers a more pensive comment: “The Empire would be a lot better off if politicians and bureaucrats were a little more mindful of the people they work for.”

 

And Yularen said not to pull this thread, but — “Do you think there’s something wrong with the Empire, Senator?”

 

Bail smiles thinly at her. “Yes, I do. A lot of things, actually. But the worst is probably just that: when the people with power think only about themselves.”

 

Arihnda should probably keep her mouth shut. Instead she says: “You can’t fault them for wanting to keep their power.”

 

Bail raises his eyebrows. “I can’t?”

 

Arihnda flushes a little.

 

Bail waves a hand vaguely at her, like he’s clearing something from the air. “Okay, let’s say I can’t. Let’s take that point. What makes you think selfishness is the surest way to get power, or to keep it?”

 

Arihnda thinks he probably isn’t finished yet. It’s a fairly obvious rhetorical gambit, anyway. She waits.

 

“See, now you’re listening. So: Senators like Renking obviously think selfishness is the way to get ahead. So do a lot of Moffs, and Governors, and Ministers — and it works in the short term. In the  _ short  _ term, Arihnda. But tell me — actually, just keep listening. You’re a clever woman. I’ll tell you something, and then you can go off and think about it, okay? Here’s what I want you to think about: Alderaan is one of the most stable, prosperous planets in the Empire. And I’m one of best-loved Senators in the Empire — I’m not bragging, just illustrating a point. I barely have to lift a finger to get reelected, let alone beg, borrow, or steal favors to make it happen. My service is my campaign; in that sense, I campaign day in and day out, constantly. After you leave, I’m going to handle a file of correspondence that if you printed it on real paper would be as tall as my leg is long, more than half of it from ordinary Alderaanian citizens, just asking their government to do its job. Think of it as an investment in my reelection. And I get reelected, term after term. And the Empire lets me run my mouth in the Senate, and on the Holonet, because the people of Alderaan support me. Because the people still matter much more than the Empire would like to admit. Do you see the point I’m trying to make?”

 

“Yes,” Arihnda says. “I believe I do.”

 

“Good. I’d like you think about it a little, and maybe in a couple of days we can talk about it again. I think that’s enough for today though, don’t you?”

 

And so it is. Except, apparently, for one more thing  “Oh, and Arihnda,” Bail calls as she’s leaving, “I’d like to meet him. Our friend. Bring him by sometime. This week, maybe.”

 

And that gives her something to talk to Thrawn about. 

 

It itches in the back of her mind all the way back to the hotel, and reminds her that, new contact protocols and schedules notwithstanding, he hasn’t called her. In the silence of her speeder, halfway back to the hotel, she tells herself that perhaps Yularen had reached out to him after breakfast — likely that’s the explanation. It’s certainly the  _ most likely  _ explanation, although she isn’t entirely sure that Thrawn is well-explained by the most likely anything. Mouth hardening into a thin line, she keys her private comm.

 

He answers promptly, and for the first time his quick response to her feels dispassionate, a matter of pure efficiency, rather than flattering.

 

“Is something amiss?” He does not even bother to greet her with her name.

 

She catches a flash of anger, shoves it out of the way inside herself. “No,” she says with forced calm. She takes a breath. Measures herself. Speaks directly, and clearly: she forces a tone that is mostly conversational, dressed with a soupcon of purely professional elan. “I have something I think we need to speak about in person.”

 

There is a short silence, and he quotes a time not too far off. She acknowledges it. He disconnects their call without further pretense.

 

In the hotel room, she considers calling him back and telling him not to bother after all. In most ways, she is stuck in the same place as yesterday.

 

Most ways. Not all ways.

 

The pang of loneliness she’d felt telling Amilyn about  _ sharing  _ has come back. Has grown. Is its own ache. 

 

But of course, she’s still frustrated. 

 

She’s frowning and weighing her options when he knocks.

 

He _ knocks.  _

 

She checks the security screen, just once, just to confirm it’s actually him. 

 

She opens the door.

 

And then they stand on opposite sides of the threshold.

 

“Hello,” she says finally. “Bail would like to meet you.” For whatever reason, she does not make any move to let him in.

 

Thrawn raises his eyebrows. “Does he? How interesting.” Arihnda still makes no move to let him in. After a moment he says, mildly: “Shall we go inside?”

 

And there’s definitely still a part of her that would really like to tell him  _ no.  _ In spite of the solid physical  _ presence  _ of him, so close and real and easy to reach out and touch — to step close to, lean into, press her face against and — and in spite of knowing that, yes, she has to talk to him about a number of things — she would like to tell him to please turn around and leave.

 

“Miss Pryce.” his tone is gentle, but very firm.

 

“Yes, of course,” she says, stepping aside quickly.

 

He walks past her, and she closes the door. And then she stands at the door, facing it, and doing nothing. Avoiding him, really — maybe that counts as doing something, after all. She stands there for a few seconds, at least. Maybe a whole minute. Maybe a little longer. From behind her, he speaks again:

 

“Colonel Yularen said he spoke to you this morning.”

 

She turns around. He is standing at the end of the entryway, perhaps two easy steps away from her, and looking at her with a faintly, very faintly, quizzical expression. It is not an entirely kind expression, this look that says:  _ I do not know what you are doing, but I will find out.  _ She doesn’t feel like being overly helpful to him in that endeavour.

 

“Yes,” she says, “we… We had breakfast, actually. I wanted to talk to him about Bail.”

 

“Indeed. Your friend Senator Organa provides the theme of the day, I see.”

 

She doesn’t have an answer for that. She does not really want to take him to meet Bail. She does not want to talk to him. Looking at him still she hears, like yesterday, the echo of his probing questions:  _ what did you do then? And what did you expect the result to be? And why did you believe this would accomplish your goal? Does that make sense to you, as you say it? Think a little harder. What else should you have expected? Is that all? Think a little harder. And why did you want that? Is that the truth? Was there nothing else? Think a little harder.  _ And worse than that, far worse than that, she hears the echo of this phrase:  _ Perhaps we will try again tomorrow.  _ The flow of want that usually stems from the thought of him is still dried up, no better than yesterday, only she misses it more. She feels dull and leaden and  _ hurt,  _ like there is a knot inside of her, stopping up the things that make her feel good: a tight tangle of heavy rope in the center of her chest.

 

Thrawn tilts his head to the side, very slightly, almost not at all. “Would you like to discuss Senator Organa while we are standing here?”

 

“No.”

 

“No,” he echoes, as if he is testing the sound of it for something, almost like yesterday. Then: “Would you like to discuss anything else?”

 

“No.”

 

“No,” he echoes again, again like he is testing it, tasting her word of choice, studying it. He pauses a moment, then says, quite civilly: “Would you like me to leave?”

 

The truth tumbles out before she can assess it — and before she can really register the rather spectacular nature of the question, which is really something, coming from him. “I don’t know,” she says.

 

He is silent for a moment. Then he says only: “I see.”

 

She takes her hand, finally, off the door, and wraps her arms around herself. 

 

And then she picks an odd gambit, from instinct: “I should thank you for yesterday,” she says. She is not quite looking at him when she says it. This is another one of those moments where she is following the thread of something as it unravels for her, trying to find her way into, or perhaps out of, a maze. “For including me, I mean. In your meeting. On the ship.”

 

“You were most helpful.” His answer is carefully given.

 

So is her reply. “Yes. I imagine you would have gotten to the same place eventually, though. I also  — I should also thank you for — for the other thing. For helping me — for reviewing —”

 

She can’t quite say it. And he doesn’t offer any help.

 

She tries again, still not really looking at him: “It’s very helpful to have you… I trust you to tell me the truth.” Which she knows is probably the right move with him, although she hates every syllable as she drags them out of herself. “And it’s kind of you to offer advice. And it was very valuable to walk through…” she doesn’t know to describe it, the story of her departure from Lothal. “It was valuable to walk through all of that.” She says this last sentence a bit quickly. And then, with uneven speed, she says: “Only — It was valuable. I should thank you.”

 

“Yes, you should,” he says. He gives it a beat, then says: “But you are not going to.”

 

“No, I am. I am grateful. I’m glad you did it, I think. But… It’s just… You were very — I think you were a great deal more harsh about it than you had to be.”

 

“Do you?”

 

“If you’re unhappy what I said to your aide —”

 

“Vanto is more than capable of managing himself,” he says flatly. It stings like a slap.

 

She gathers herself for half a second. “Fine. Fine. So I'm wrong about that. But I think it would have gone differently if I’d told you the story the first time you asked.”

 

“I expect so as well.”

 

She takes a sharp breath in a flash of fire, then pushes it back out of her lungs. “You can't punish me every time I don't do exactly what you want, exactly when you want.”

 

“I am not punishing you for anything,” he says calmly. “I expect you would have preferred the setting. That does not mean the questions would have been different.”

 

“No? I certainly felt like you were —”

 

“It is not easy to examine one’s failures,” he says across her, evenly. “Nor admit to one’s faults.”

 

She bites her tongue. He is not, she knows, remotely wrong. “No,” she allows finally. “No, it isn’t.”

 

“It is impossible to avoid repeating one’s own errors if one does not examine them.” It's not quite gentle — but it's not unkind, either.

 

“I know.” She sounds as tired as she feels. “I know that, just —”

 

“You are feeling wounded.”

 

She tightens her arms against herself. “I think I am, a little,” she admits. And perhaps she doesn’t need to clarify that she is especially wounded because of  _ who  _ asked her to examine her failures.

 

“That is understandable.”

 

“Is it?”

 

Something flickers over his face, like a decision. He says, quite seriously: “It is. Nothing I asked of you was easy.”

 

And that loosens the knot inside her. If this is a ploy of his own, it is at least a well-chosen one. It gives her something she needs. “No,” she says, spine almost sagging. “It wasn’t easy. But you were very helpful, and I am grateful. I really am.”

 

“Indeed.” And then he seems to make another decision: steps back, and to the side, and gestures towards the rest of the suite. “I trust this particular matter is now resolved. Tell me what transpired with Senator Organa.”

 

She hesitates a moment, then moves past him, and seats herself at the table. “Not much,” she says. “But he said he’d like to meet you.”

 

“Did he? I presume then I was the subject of some discussion.”

 

“No, not really. He wanted to talk about something that was tangential to my request for help with the  _ Thunder Wasp _ . But he’s curious about you.”

 

Thrawn, who has followed a few paces behind her, seats himself across from her. “Is he? And why is that?”

 

Arihnda considers carefully before explaining. “He wants to know why I would go out of my way to ask for a favor on your behalf.”

 

Thrawn’s mouth curves very thinly. “Interesting. Tell me: what else does Senator Organa know, or believe about me? And about your interest in me?”

 

And that’s trickier. “He knows your service record, of course. He knows the pitch Yularen was making for you at Ascension week — which he bought, by the way. And he knows I... “

 

Thrawn raises an eyebrow, waits.

 

“He doesn’t know about  _ this,”  _ Arihnda says defensively.

 

“No?”

 

“No. At least —”  _ Does our friend have more or less of a sweet tooth than you?  _ “Even if he wonders, he doesn’t  _ know _ . And I don’t think it would be a problem if he did. He’s no friend of COMPNOR.”

 

“He can still use the threat of denouncement for leverage.”

 

“He doesn’t know.”

 

“I see.”

 

“Bail is a powerful ally,” she says sharply. “He helped block your last court-martial. And you already know he’s the one who got the parts delivered to the _ Thunder Wasp _ . He wants to  _ like _ you. It’s in your interest to help him do that. He wants to believe that we’re… Friends, at least, I think. He doesn’t disapprove of that. I think it’s part of why he wants to help.”   
  


He raises an eyebrow. “Indeed.” Then he asks: “What did he want to talk to you about, if not about me?”

 

Arihnda thinks for a moment before saying: “He wanted to discuss my career.”

 

“Did he? And was it a fruitful discussion?”

 

Arihnda considers that carefully, too. Then she says: “It was, yes. But it could have been more fruitful.”

 

“What might you do differently, should an opportunity arise again?”

 

“Actually, I think it’s what you’ll do.” She sits a little straighter. “Bail wants… It will help for him to believe certain things about me. Or to infer them. And he’ll make the inferences he’s hoping to be able to make if you… If we let him make certain inferences about us.” 

 

“I see,” Thrawn says again. He is looking at her carefully. “Another question about Senator Organa, if you would.” Arihnda bites the inside of her lip and waits. Thrawn continues: “Had he expressed any interest in you or your career before you requested that he assist with the  _ Thunder Wasp _ ?”

 

“No.”

 

“I see. One more question: do you believe he will become less interested in assisting with such matters in the future if he is unable, as you say, to draw the inferences he wishes to draw?”

 

“You mean — will he not care about you or the Thunder Wasp anymore?” She chews on it for a moment, then says the truth: “No, I think he’ll still be interested in that.”

 

“So it is only you who will cease to be of interest to him.”

 

“Yes,” she says, suddenly a bit sullen.

 

“I see,” he says. And for a moment, during which Arihnda begins to stew again, he seems content to leave the conversation there. Then he says: “That would be inconvenient for us both. When do you intend to introduce me?”

 

She is surprised for a moment. “He’d like to meet you sometime this week, I think. Inconvenient — would it be inconvenient for you to deal with him directly?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Because you value having someone manage your political assets for you,” she says, stating her guess at his reasoning aloud to him.

 

“Primarily, yes,” he says.

 

“Primarily.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“And because the more political assets of my own I have, the more valuable I can be to you?”

 

“Precisely so.”

 

She draws her arms around herself again, rubs her thumbs against her elbows. “I was thinking about that,” she says.

 

“Were you?”

 

“Yes. I’ve been thinking about what I can do for you — the further along I get.”

 

“Have you? I would have expected you to be thinking about what you can achieve for yourself.”

 

She frowns at the table, doesn’t answer. In truth, she hasn’t had any specific goals for herself — the governorship, the idea of power, they haven’t had concrete plans attached to them. The idea of authority has been a kind of end in itself, something she can hold in her hands like an expensive trinket. Beyond disposing of a list of people she’s come to hate and restoring her parents to the management of her mine, she’s had no goals. It’s only Thrawn’s need for political advisement and political support that’s given a more definitive shape to her ambition. And isn’t that what they’re working on here, together? Isn’t that what he called their arrangement — being partners in her  _ advancement? _

 

“I’ve been wondering what you want from your political assets, actually,” she says. “From having  _ access  _ to an Imperial Governor, as you said. Besides being bumped up repair lists.”

 

“You have also informed me that promotion is a political matter. I imagine naval orders are, as well.”

 

“I did, yes. And yes, they are.” She looks up at him. “How far do you intend to be promoted?”

 

He looks at her evenly for a moment before saying, with no particular inflection: “As far as is possible.”

 

He does not say  _ as far as is possible within the Navy.  _ She frowns. “A planetary governor can only do so much.”

 

“Then perhaps you will have to achieve a higher rank, yourself.” His tone isn’t wry, exactly, but there’s a current of — something. Humor, maybe.

 

She ignores it. “How far do you believe it’s possible for you to be promoted, if I may ask? So I know how far ahead to plan, of course.”

 

He gives her another long, considering look. “To Admiral, at least.”

 

“At least,” she echoes. “And the faster the better, I imagine?”

 

“Certainly.”

 

“And beyond that? Fleet Admiral? Grand Admiral? Chief of the Imperial Navy, perhaps?”

 

This silence is shorter. “I had not decided yet.” It rests on the very knife’s edge between humor and baiting.

 

“Oh,” she says, covering up the feeling of surprise with baiting of her own. “I see. Are you considering the position of Emperor, perhaps?”

 

His gaze flickers over her once. His mouth curves very thinly at the corner. When he speaks, his voice is pleasantly wry. “Perhaps it is you who will become Empress.”

 

She holds his gaze. The knot inside her is decidedly loosened. And this — this banter, if that’s what it is, seems to be opening the last locks on her desires, on the good feelings she has around him, the ones she’s come to prize so fiercely in just a matter of days. This is not at all like yesterday, feeling like she has to push on — she wants to keep doing whatever this is, wants to follow the flow of until it brings the two of them flowing together. She raises an eyebrow. “Emperor,” she corrects him. “I dislike the diminutive.”

 

He raises a brow in return. “I believe you mean the feminine.”

 

“I believe I know what I mean,” she says lightly. She leans forward. “What would you do for me, if I were Emperor?”

 

His brow arches higher. “Serve you, certainly.”

 

“You mean obey me.”

 

“I do not. Service is not always obedience.”

 

“No?”

 

“No.”

 

“Maybe you should demonstrate the concept for me.”

 

“Should I?” He looks decidedly amused now —  _ good,  _ she thinks. It’s good the way the look on his face agrees with the thing she is feeling, or at least seems to.

 

“Ye-e-es,” drawing out the word for the second time that evening. But this time, it’s not an uneasy sound. “I’d like for you to show me how you’d serve me.”

 

The amusement flattens out of his features, which makes her feel, for a moment, a fluttering of trepidation in her chest. Then he rises, deliberately, and stands for the space of a heartbeat before moving around the table towards her, at a pace neither fast nor slow. She turns her body in her chair to face him as he rounds the end of the table and stops within a pace of her.

 

“How, exactly, do you think you would like to be  _ served _ ?” The dry humor is still there, but only faintly.

 

If they are going to do this, she thinks, she will ask for the things she wants. All the things she wants. If nothing else, she’ll see what he says no to. She holds her hands out to him — and he takes them. “I don’t think things have been working as well as they could have.”

 

“It has been an interesting week,” he allows noncommittally. 

 

“Yes,” she says. “I want to reset a little, and try something like the first night again. I want you to let me look at you, and touch you. I want you to undress me, and then undress for me.”

 

“I see,” he says, then pulls on her hands — pulls her upward, out of the chair, and lets her hands go.

 

Letting him peel her clothes off — lifting her arms when he lifts them lightly with his fingertips, turning easily in his hands when he presses on her hips — has begun to feel familiar. Comfortable. Almost comforting.

 

He takes longer than is really necessary, but she likes the things he adds: he trails his fingers over each new swathe of naked skin, and lets his mouth roam after the paths traced by his fingers — like the first night, outlines and surveys and tests and explores. 

 

And she touches him in return when it’s convenient: strokes the backs of his hands, traces the tendons of his neck, runs her fingers fondly through his hair. And it feels, all of it, like it is starting to become easy.

 

When he peels off the last of her underthings, pushes the flimsy bit of cloth down off her hips and rolls it over her thighs and down to her ankles, he’s kneeling before her, and she has both her hands on his head — a moment borrowed almost, but not exactly, from their first night. She presses against the crown of his head when he moves to rise.

 

“Wait,” she whispers, voice low and thick. He looks up — curious again, like the first night, willing, though perhaps more cautious. “Stay there, for a minute.” She curls her fingers into his hair. “Kiss me there.”

 

There’s a half a moment where she thinks perhaps she needs to explain, and then he leans forward — remembers the moment she’s thinking of, perhaps — and he puts his hands on her near the tops of her thighs, and leans forward and plants his lips on the point of her hip. And then he moves: presses another dry kiss beside the first, and another, and another, until he has trailed a line of them to her other hip. She keeps her fingers curled in his hair as he does, and feels her breathing growing higher, and shallower. When he reaches her other hip, he starts back the other way, carving a second line above the first, cutting through the places where her belly is softest. She feels a tingling in her palms and in the soles of her feet. A pleasant, easy ache is beginning to pool low between her legs. When his mouth touches just below her belly button, she makes a little sound and tightens her fingers in his hair and cranks his head back. She takes one breath, then another, then finds her voice, or a version of it: low, and smoky. “Up. Get up.”

 

He stands, still touching her, draws his hands up to her waist, watches her expression. She slides her fingers through his hair, curls her hands around the base of his neck, and after a moment’s pause — breathless, maybe a little nervous — leans up into him, and pulls him down at the same time.

 

His mouth is pliant and yielding: he lets her press against him just a little, nip at his upper lip, pull back a little, run her tongue across the seam of his mouth — and then he tightens his hands on her waist and pulls her close, and presses in against her. He bites her upper lip and pulls on it, wraps an arm around her waist, puts a hand on her head, coaxes her mouth open. She slides her arms around her shoulders and leans into him, the slightly coarse wool of his uniform scratching at the soft skin of her breasts and belly, and lets him flick his tongue lightly across the roof of her mouth. It gives her a strange, not unpleasant, tickling sensation. She is breathing through her nose. She slides one hand back into his hair, stroking her fingertips against his scalp. He tightens his hand in her hair, tilts her head back further, and slides his tongue against hers, carefully, for a moment, which she quite enjoys. Then his tongue is out of her mouth and for a moment everything is lips again, and then he pulls away.

 

“Clothes,” she says. “Take them off.”

 

He raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t object. Steps back from her, starts with his belt. Then his shoes. Then the tunic, then the jodphurs. She wraps one arm around her waist and crosses the other across her chest and chews on her thumb while he strips down to nothing.

 

Then he stands before her, weight on both feet, arms loose by his sides, cock thick but not yet hard, and says: “I believe you wished to explore.”

 

His voice is mostly dry, but there is a little something underneath it that reminds her of the uncertain tension of the first night, too, when he stood naked in front of her and waited for… Rejection, maybe. 

 

She reaches forward, and cups his face, leans up on the balls of her feet to kiss him once, very chastely, on the mouth. “Yes,” she says, settling her weight back onto her heels. His expression is very closed, but not, she doesn’t think, unhappy. She turns her attention to his chest. She slides her hands down to his collarbone, spreads her fingers wide, and trails them down to his belly. She glances back at his face: no real expression — he is still mostly watching her — but better than a bad response. She slides her hands back up to his collarbone and repeats the process, then leans forward and plants a dry kiss haphazardly on his chest. She pulls back to check his face again. He raises an eyebrow. 

 

“Not good?” she asks.

 

“No,” he says, “not  _ bad. _ ”

 

Experimentally, she does it again. Takes a step closer so she has to lean less far, and does it yet again. Steps closer again. Trails a line of kisses from the hollow his neck to the point of his shoulder, then does it again on the opposite side. Kisses the dip above his collarbone on either side of his neck. Strokes her fingers along his chest again. Looks up at his face. He is still watching her, carefully. 

 

“Would you turn around for me?” she asks.

 

He raises an eyebrow, but after a moment, he does it.

 

The expanse of his back is lean and strong, and she trails her fingers across it lightly in long, curving strokes for what seems like a long time, tracing the contours of his shoulders, shoulder blades, the muscles that anchored to his ribs, the cords of muscle that lie on either side of his spine. She runs her fingers over the soft places that hide his kidneys, and has a terrible thought, that blooms like a tender ache in her chest, and sparks a nervous humming in her arms and her hands and her feet. The Dromedar. A part of the story Barlin had told with relish. The pirates. Blasters. The buzz droid. He only has one scar, on his chest, and she hasn’t asked about it, hasn’t been interested in it until now, but — 

 

She steps up close to him, wraps her arms around his waist, presses her face between his shoulder blades, and inhales deeply. He stiffens for a moment, then puts one hand softly over hers, which are clasped against his stomach. She turns her face to the side, and stays there for a moment. She can feel the muscles of his back move against her cheek; possibly he is turning his head in a fruitless effort to see what she is doing. She tightens her arms around him, and turns her head and kisses his back, and then steps away from him.

 

He turns around, looking at her curiously. 

 

“I wanted to ask about the scar,” she says. It’s a very thin scar — she reaches out to run a fingertip along it — or at least it is harder to see on his skin than it might be on a human’s. It might have only have been a scratch — but she doesn’t think his skin scars easily.

 

“An accident,” he says, catching her hand. “Many years ago. Before I came here.”

 

“Oh,” she says. She looks at it for a minute more, then back up at his face. “I wondered.”

 

“Indeed.”

 

She shakes off his hand, steps closer, puts her palms flat on his chest. He seems to take the point, slides his arms around her waist.

 

She lets her head dip forward, presses her face into his chest. She can feel him rest his face on the top of her head: can feel, vaguely, the shape of his chin and his mouth and his nose. She can feel his warm breath in her hair. She slides her hands up, wraps her arms around his neck, turns her head so her cheek is resting above the place she thinks his heart must be. He moves one of his hands to the back of her neck and rubs his thumb absently against the base of her skull. 

 

They stay like that for a moment, a very pleasant span of eight or nine heartbeats, before she pulls her head back to look at him. “I want to go to bed,” she says. “Carry me.”

 

He raises an eyebrow briefly, and then picks her up — a more awkward procedure than she expects.  She hasn’t ever been carried by anyone before; in practice it’s somewhat less enjoyable than she’d expected. It’s not particularly comfortable, and she finds she feels further from him than she expects — she can not, for instance, rest her head on his shoulder. It is also a little bit boring. After the first two steps, she stretches her neck forward and, pulling her lips into a plump pucker, blows a steady, directed current of air against his neck.

 

He pauses in his stride and turns his face towards her. The corner of his mouth is faintly curled. She thinks it’s a good reaction. “Would you like to make it to the bed,” he asks, “or have you changed your mind?”

 

“The bed,” she says lightly. But when he begins walking again, she does the same thing. He doesn’t stop, but he does dig his fingers into her somewhat pointedly. She doesn’t mind so much.

 

Maneuvering through the door requires one careful turn, but after that it is only a couple of steps to the bed. Setting her down brings him halfway over her, and gives her another easy opportunity to touch his face, pull his face close to hers, and kiss him. “Not bad, so far,” she says.

 

“No,” he agrees, standing and trailing his fingers down the length of her torso. There is still a small, wry curve in the very corner of his mouth. “I assume you have some further service you wish to request,” he says, stroking the junction of her thighs.

 

“Yes,” she says, propping herself up on her elbows, which hurts her shoulder but not badly enough to make her change how she’s sitting, “serve me there.”

 

He raises an eyebrow. “That is the idea.”

 

“No,” she clarifies. “I mean: use your mouth.” His fingers curl to a stop against her skin. His face sobers. It doesn’t seem like a positive response. “You offered once before —”

 

“You did not seem receptive.”

 

“I’ve changed my mind,” she says firmly.

 

He looks at her for another moment, then says: “Turn so your hips are this way.” She does, wriggles around on the bed until her legs are towards him, with her knees hanging over the edge. “Closer,” he says. She accommodates that, too, wiggling towards the edge of the bed until her rump is almost hanging off the edge. She props herself back up on her elbows again. “Lay down,” he says. She does. He reaches forward and runs a finger down her stomach, and then lowers himself onto his knees; from her vantage point, chin tucked down to her chest, she sees the line of his shoulders lower. “Put your feet on my shoulders.” She does, one foot at a time, looking for something like comfortable purchase. “Let your knees open the rest of the way, please.” And now she is starting to feel a little, strangely, anxious. She looks at the ceiling. She has only done this once before and it was — it was alright. Sort of. She can feel his hands on the outsides of her thighs, fingers running lightly along her skin. “Just let them fall to the side,” he coaxes again. 

 

She takes a breath, and then she does, knees drifting apart like falling leaves, hips opening like a elaborate puzzle. Her hands are resting softly on her stomach, just below her ribs. The ceiling is smooth and blank above her. She can feel cool air on the warm, damp, open flesh of her cunt. She takes another breath, and then Thrawn grips her hips with both hands, firmly. For a minute, that takes her all her attention.

 

And then she feels his tongue against her clit.

 

All at once she closes her eyes, curls her toes, draws her legs up against his head, and cries out once: a pleasantly startled _oh_. He wraps his hands around her thighs and pulls her open again, and does something she perceives as burying his face into her. It makes her cry out again, still half-surprised. His tongue is wetter than her cunt. The sensation is stranger than she remembers: not at all like fingers or a cock. His tongue is soft and pliant and mobile and active. And she feels his lips, too. 

 

The sensation of his mouth, soft and active, against the flesh of her cunt, soft and yielding makes her feel — Makes her feel — She doesn’t put a word to it, although the word is hovering just out of reach. There’s a tightness in her throat, and a prickling in her closed eyes. She feels the awful, tender thing, and beneath it the strange upwelling that had so threatened to undo her the night before last. Her breath is beginning to come high in her chest, ragged and audible, and every exhalation is half a moan, each sound low and strangely mournful, almost plaintive.

 

She slides her hands down her body, feeling for the top of his head by touch. She finds him and for a minute just rests her hands against him, palms curved against the shape of his skull. She wiggles her feet against his shoulders. Then, she begins to stroke her fingers through his hair: first one hand, then the other, from his hairline down as far as she can reach around the crown of his skull. As she pushes her fingers through his hair, over and over, her moans begin to form into words:  _ Thank you,  _ she starts chanting, a kind of senseless prayer.  _ Thank you, thank you, thank you —  _

 

She can feel him shift his head between her legs, open his jaw wider. He presses the point of his tongue into the center of her, into the slick opening where she wants his cock to go, and she presses her head back into the mattress and cries aloud. She knots her fingers in his hair and bucks her hips without thinking, as if she could thrust her open cunt far enough up towards him to be filled his tongue. He digs his fingers harder into her thighs and pushes her hips down against the mattress with his forearms, and drags his tongue back up and over clit, and she cries out again. There is a trembling starting in her legs, and low in her abdomen. Deep in her cunt she feels the taut, humming strain that builds, and builds, and will finally snap inward on itself, if only —

 

He takes one his hands off her hip, moves it around underneath her and slides two fingers into her, then almost out again, and again, added to the active flickering of his tongue on her clit —

 

Her fingers flex once against his skull and then clutch there. Fingers, inside her; mouth against her. She opens her own mouth and wails. Her belly is trembling. The taut strain is worse, and worse, her muscles caught halfway between a swollen paralysis and a undulating, outward push.

 

It’s his tongue that pushes her over. One wet lick, timed right, against the soft knot of nerve endings. The muscles inside her clutch wildly around his fingers. She wails louder, and her stomach draws in, and she digs her fingers into his scalp, and the leg he isn’t holding in place snaps closed at the hip and knee, her heel knocking against the back of his head — and then he pulls his head up. Her hands come off his head, and after a moment of uncertain confusion she lets them land on the mattress on either side of her head.

 

He keeps his fingers in her, unmoving, for a moment. He presses his face into her thigh, kisses her there. Perhaps he is catching his breath; that is what she thinks she is probably doing, herself.

 

Then he moves again, pulls his fingers out of her, plants his hands on the edge of the mattress on either side of her hips. He drops his head to her body, presses his mouth on her belly, first low, just above her pubic bone, then higher, and higher, pushing his shoulders up between her legs and levering himself over the edge of the mattress until his mouth finds its way to her neck.

 

Her knees are hooked over his elbows, and his hips are pressed against the backs of her thighs. She can feel his cock. He kisses her jaw. She puts her hands back on his head.

 

“I kicked you,” she says. She sounds a little confused, maybe.

 

He snorts. “I seem to have survived.”

 

She strokes her fingers from his temples to the base of his skull once, twice, three times. He watches her face. She opens her mouth to say something, then she stops herself. The questions she really needs to ask is  _ did I taste alright?  _ But it’s too embarrassing to say. She says instead: “What do you get out of that?”

 

He shifts his weight onto one arm, moves his other hand behind her, and presses his thumb somewhere in the general area of her clit. She gasps, head going back, eyes closing. He presses his thumb into her harder, moving it a little, longer than is really necessary to make his point, long enough for her high gasp to become a low, aching groan.

 

Then he takes his hand away, shifts his weight back onto both arms, and waits for her to open her eyes again. “That is what I get,” he says when she is looking at him.

 

“Oh,” she says. She feels a little breathless. She looks at him for a little longer, moving her fingers through his hair, letting her gaze wander over the ridges and curves and contours of his face, until the silence seems to be overly long, and half from desire and half just to say something, she says: “Do you want to fuck me?” 

 

It comes out a little high and hopeful, and for a minute he looks as though he is going to laugh. “Yes,” he says. “I do. Move up.” He gestures vaguely with his chin towards the top of the bed.

 

There is a minute of slightly ridiculously wriggling and crawling and arranging on both their parts. From an outside perspective it would probably look absurd, but to Arihnda it doesn’t quite feel that way. She feels a little hurried, but when she decides she doesn’t want to stay on top of the covers and starts tugging at the top of the bed, he helps — although his mouth curves wryly at her expense while he does. 

 

He looks at her while they kneel in the half-circle of pulled down sheets, and says: “Your shoulder is better.”

 

“I think — mostly,” she says.

 

“From behind, then?”

 

Which rather gets to the point. But it’s not what she wants. “Actually,” she says, “I’d like to be closer than that. I mean —” As soon as she says it, it seems too personal. She scrambles to cover. “I mean, face-to-face. Like we were a minute ago.” She means her legs hooked over his arms, and her hands in his hair, and his mouth on her neck, chest, shoulders —

 

“I believe I know what you mean,” he says. He looks at the haphazard pile of pillows left at the top of the bed. “Lie down.”

 

Which strikes her as a little business like, compared to the banter from earlier, but she doesn’t complain. She’d rather like to move on to the next bit quickly, herself. She doesn’t feel the aching hunger inside her cunt anymore, but she feels warm and soft inside in a way that makes her want to be full with him. She settles back and and rests her hands on her breasts, squeezes them gently and rocks her palms in very small circles that make her nipples harden while she watches him crawl closer.

 

“Knees up,” he says, and she folds her legs, drawing her heels back towards her rear. He’s kneeling, and swings himself around below her, bracing himself with his legs a little wider than her hips. “Ankles up, on my shoulders,” he says next, lifting her feet a little. He leans forward, putting his weight on her legs, letting her calves slide over his shoulders until his chest pressing against the backs of her thighs. He’s leaning on one hand, his other hand resting on her hip. “Shall we?”

 

She nods, a slow, emphatic motion of her head. He shifts his weight to the side a little more, takes his hand off her hip, and positions the head of his cock at the entrance of her cunt. He is looking at her and, without needing to be coaxed, she is looking right back. There is something a little comical about seeing his deep blue face bracketed by her own pale, grey-white legs, but the thought is derailed almost instantly. He pushes into her slowly; she tightens her hands on her breasts and takes a long, steady breath. He stops for a moment when he’s pressed fully inside of her. She watches his face. She thinks the expression there is good, probably: steady and calm and attentive to her. And his cock feels good, too: he feels warm and solid and comfortably fitted into the soft space inside of her. She lifts her hands from her breasts and cups his face. “I’d like you to fuck me now,” she whispers.

 

He drops his mouth to her shoulder collarbone and presses his mouth there, slides his cock backwards and then back into her in a long stroke that makes her close her eyes and groan. He repeats the same stoke: a steady motion that bottoms out deep inside her and that she can feel completely. She slides her hands along his face and back into his hair, wrapping her arms around his head and holding him against her chest, here his mouth keeps moving, scattering sporadic kisses on her neck and collarbone and the swell of her breasts, as she murmurs  _ fuck me, fuck me, fuck me  _ into his ear.

 

It’s a suggestion he seems more than happy to obey and he moves not faster but harder, hitting the center of her on every stroke, an impact that makes her feel a burst of giddy pleasure each time he strikes, and brings a rush of enjoyment blooming low in her belly. She curls her fingers into his hair, again, and her chant gives way to wordless sounds, soft gasping, and then she turns her head to press her face close to his — and then she stops making any sounds at all. She strokes her fingers against his scalp and breathes unevenly and after a minute he begins to slow. “Don’t stop,” she whispers to him, eyes squeezed shut. “Don’t stop.”

 

But he does, pulls back to look at her. “Don’t stop,” she says again with her eyes still closed, fingers moving hypnotically against his head. “Don’t stop.”

 

“You are not present.” It sounds — beneath the heavy accent it sounds… maybe not judgemental, but something like it.

 

She opens her eyes, and finds him looking at her narrowly. 

 

It’s an odd phrasing but she thinks she knows what he means. She isn’t… Chasing anything. There’s no taut, singing anticipation building in her muscles, no oncoming spasm of orgasm — but she isn’t, strangely, very interested in those things. She lifts a hand off his head, presses it to his cheek, strokes her thumb along his cheekbone. “I just want to feel you,” she murmurs. “Just you.”

 

The narrow look does not really leave his features. And she is starting to think there may be a pattern here, that the way he is focused on her orgasms may be less flattering and attentive and more about a performance he wants her to put on for him — more about the gratification of eliciting his preferred response than about her or her feelings.

 

She strokes her thumb along his cheekbone again. “Consider it a service,” she murmurs, half-coy. “Just — let me feel you.”

 

“There is also what I would like to feel from you,” he says, pronunciation overly precise. He says it evenly but it feels very much like a criticism.

 

She tightens her fingers in his hair, a little unkindly. “Put it down for practice,” she says. “But right now, let me feel you. Call it a service.” And this time she doesn’t sound coy at all.

 

He gives her that narrow look for another moment, and she thinks maybe he is going to pick a fight.

 

Instead, he moves his hips again: a long, slow stroke back and in again, and looks at her intently while he does. Her lips part, her thumb presses into his cheek. He does it again. She doesn’t close her eyes. He does it again.

 

“You feel this.” It is not a question.

 

But she answers anyway. She makes a little sound, licks her lips, tries again: “Yes.”

 

He pushes into her again, steadily, and again. And she finds herself watching him, being watched by him. She still has one arm wrapped around the back of his head, hand buried in his hair; her other hand is still pressed to his face. And strangely, as he moves in her, as he  _ watches _ her, she feels herself beginning to tense around his cock. Maybe it’s because they’re watching each other. Or perhaps it is just that the act of starting and stopping and starting again has teased out more sensitivity from her.

 

“You want me to fuck you harder,” he says.

 

And this is not really a question either, either, but she nods. Her breath is high and shallow in the back of her throat.

 

He sends his hips into with force, this time, hitting the same spot that makes the strange, giddy rush of pleasure crest in her belly.

 

“More?”

 

She whimpers.

 

“Tell me how I feel.”

 

She makes a guttural noise, then tries again: “Good.” It comes out as a whimper.

 

“Yes,” he says. His eyes have a strange, fierce glow. He hits the place deep inside her and she whimpers. “Again,” he says.

 

“You feel good.”

 

“Yes,” he says. 

 

Then he leans into her heavily, so her legs fold into the mattress on either side of her torso, and moves his weight from his hands to his elbows, and puts his hands on her head. His spine is curved above her like the dome of a shield. He strokes his fingers through her hair; the feeling sends a spark of pleasure shivering through her body. He kisses her mouth, once, deeply, which makes her nerves hum all over, and then lifts his head enough to look at her. He is breathing a little heavily, himself. Her attention flickers between his mouth, half-parted, and his eyes, blazing darkly. He says something, not in basic, and curls his fingers in her hair, and begins to fuck her again, hips curving in an arc that drives his cock deep and hard inside of her.

 

And this time it is only four or five of these deep, heavy strokes before she freezes, clutching at him, and shudders, cunt snapping tautly around his cock. It’s not much of an orgasm, but it has the element of surprise — and it’s mixed up, too, with the feeling of tenderness and the strange, upwelling thing. It makes her body feel light and heavy at the same time: nerves tingling and dizzy. 

 

He stops again, strokes her scalp, kisses her again, and murmurs “Not bad,” in his heavy accent.

 

She can feel the low rumble of his voice where there bellies touch. The strange, upwelling thing inside her answers with a sympathetic surge. She nudges her face closer to his. “Not bad,” she whispers back. And then, stroking his cheek gently with her thumb, nerves humming, she whispers: “Now you.”

 

And he looks at her for a long moment, eyes lit with a strange, darkly blazing glow that makes the tender ache in her chest curl in on itself and then bloom outward. Then he pushes himself back onto his hands. He moves her legs: slips them off his shoulders, makes her hook them around his waist, and settles himself back onto his elbows. He slides one hand beneath her back, making her spine curve up into him, breasts pressing against his chest. His other hand is beneath her head. She has one hand loosely resting on his shoulder, the other curved around the base of his skull. He leans down and kisses her, softly, and it makes the tender feeling and the other thing, beneath it, both swell up inside of her.

 

And then he starts to move in her again.

 

The way she responds is partly physical: the stopping and starting, and the fact that he feels good to her, as a body, would have drawn out pleasurable responses in any case.

 

But mostly what happens to her doesn’t come from her body at all. Her body is the vessel for it, and his body against her and within her provides a kind of focus and permission, but the scale of her reaction to sensations of his body against hers — to his torso moving against hers, to his mouth touching random patches of skin on her neck and her shoulders, to his hands on her head and her back, to his hips between her legs, to his cock sliding inside of her — grows out of the same tender surge that had so frightened her a week ago, and out of the other upwelling thing that has begun carving a path out from the deep place where it has lain untouched inside of her for years. All of her reactions, her overreactions, are a crazed manifestation of all the half-starved parts of herself she was worked so hard to lock away since being fired by Renking: a desire to put her trust in someone and have it be rewarded, an desire to be seen for herself and appreciated, a desire to be  _ trusted _ by the people around her, a desire to feel wanted — all the things she has not  _ truly  _ had since leaving her family on Lothal.

 

Things that Thrawn has given to her, knowingly or not.

 

And maybe things she is giving to him, in return. He presses his face into her shoulder on one side, then the other, mutters, sometimes, clutches at her shoulders, holds her head close to his, leaves kisses scattered carelessly across the top of her chest, catches her open, vocal mouth with his and slows his cock inside her as he kisses her, then buries his face in her neck and thrusts hard again — over and over, with no particular pattern. She shudders against him sporadically, cries out in pleading sympathy. 

 

She has even less of a sense of what is happening to her body than usual. There is something like a strange, shimmering electric fire in her nerves that burns away any clear sense of events. She has a glittering, singing ache in her chest, and feels waves of the upwelling thing deep in her belly. There is a feeling on her skin like burst of sparks whenever he kisses her. All the surfeit of sensation makes her cry aloud with every thrust and clutch at him haphazardly: first his shoulders, than the back of his head, then some place as far down his back as she can reach, then his upper arms, then shoulders again, in random patterns, clinging to him, pulling him against her. There is something like a fever in her brain that makes her start to babble incoherently without even being aware of the words she is saying ( _ please oh please oh please please love me please) _ . She buries her face in his neck and yells when he hits the place inside her just so.

 

And finally, somewhere in the mess of it, he tenses, fingers curled in her hair, face pressed to her shoulder, and cums.

 

There is a long, still silence after that, filled only with their breathing.

 

As her mind begins to set itself back in some kind of order, the first thought she has is that holding him is almost as pleasurable as being fucked. She wouldn’t mind, really, holding him for a long time.

 

Then he pushes himself up a little, and examines her face. The glow is mostly gone from his eyes. She turns her head, pillow crinkling beneath the motion, to look at him more fully. She moves her hand, too, and brushes her fingertips against the side of his face. “Not bad?” she asks.

 

He shakes his head, looks at her a moment longer, then kisses her. Drawing back, he says: “No, not bad. Nor for you, I think.”

 

She moves her fingers over his face again. His cock, half-hard, is still inside her. “No,” she says. “I think — I think we should consider this a reset, then.”

 

“Indeed,” he says. He looks at her a little longer, makes no move to pull out of her.

 

“Do you think you might stay?” she asks.

 

He raises an eyebrow. “No. It is not convenient. In fact, I should leave soon.” And that more or less breaks the moment.

 

He pulls out of her, rolls off the bed, and retreats, first of the two of them for once, to the fresher. The whole process makes her feel distinctly empty — another sensation that is not really physical.

 

She considers following him for a moment, and then rolls to the unmussed side of the bed, and wraps herself in a clean section of sheet, and waits.

 

He emerges in short order; from his damp hair it’s obvious he’s showered, but he’s mostly dry, and still stark naked. “You will let me know when you have definitive plans for my meeting with Senator Organa?” he says from the doorway.

 

ˆ _ Our _ meeting,” she corrects him, hugging her knees to her chest. “And yes, I will.”

 

“Good. We will speak tomorrow, then.” And without further discussion, he departs.

 

It doesn’t seem worth the effort of calling him back. Instead, she holds herself for a few minutes, and then decides she really should use the fresher before sleeping.

 

She falls asleep thinking, of all things, about their one brief exchange of almost-jokes:  _ perhaps it is you who will become Empress. _

 

She tosses and turns.  _ As far as is possible.  _

 

The odd thing is — there’s no reason for her not to aim higher than a Planetary Governorship, is there? No reason to treat it like a destination, instead of a stepping stone.

 

Bail seems to think she’s smart and competent. She  _ is  _ smart and competent. And the higher she rises, she thinks for the third time in the week, the more she can do for Thrawn — and the more she can use him for, as well. The more they can do together, perhaps.

 

She thinks oddly, too, of the half-finished conversation she and Thrawn had had about discontent in the Outer Rim. The things wrong with Tarkin’s approach. She thinks vaguely about Yularen’s opinion of the purpose of the Empire, his lack of disdain for the Republic. She thinks about her conversation with Bail. She slips into sleep with a strange humming in her mind.

 

She has a dream, which she does not remember when she wakes, where Bail and Thrawn and Yularen and her parents have a long, involved discussion. The discussion does not include her. She is stuck watching it from a sort of dais table. Tarkin, Renking, and Ghadi are seated with her. When she rises to try and join the people standing and speaking in a pool of light in the middle of the room, a hand on her shoulder stops her. The hand belongs to Ottlis.

 

She wakes late, groggy, tired — and hovering on the borderline of a decision.

 

She messages Driller:  _ not feeling well, can’t make it in. _

 

She lays in bed and stares at the ceiling. Bail has a theory, she thinks, of what it means to have power. How best to acquire it, how to secure it, and what to do with it. 

 

God knows the people of Alderaan keep Bail Organa in a position of power. A position that comes with more power than Arihnda’s ever held in her life. And they keep his positions secure, relatively speaking, even against a government that isn’t overly fond of him. He’s openly critical, a legislative nuisance, makes himself a thorn in the side of the Emperor’s agenda at every opportunity, and yet…

 

Arihnda had always viewed the machinery of Imperial as a patronage system. The hierarchy of Governors and Moffs is certainly build that way. And until he’d decided she wasn’t useful, Renking had been a valuable patron. And she’s formed her current plans on the basis of the belief that Tarkin will be an even more valuable patron.

 

But perhaps, just perhaps, Bail’s right about where power really comes from. Maybe a large  _ enough  _ base of people, people who are loyal  _ enough,  _ is worth more than anything Renking could ever have offered her. 

 

And what power had Renking offered, really, in the end? Perhaps her transfer to Bartanish Four, something she'd thought of as promotion and opportunity, had been… something else entirely. 

 

Thinking about her time in Renking’s employ, framing it through the lens of Bail’s ideas, she starts to see the whole affair in a new light. It seems to her, as she considers it, that the further she moved from the people she touched, the smaller her web of influence, of support had become — she could have cultivated a community around herself, if she'd wanted to. If she hadn't been so focused on being drawn in to the shining circle of the great and the good. And in that circle she'd been… no one. What she'd thought of as a promotion had narrowed her world, not expanded it. Transferring to Bartanish Four had ultimately boxed her into a small corner. It had made her invisible, vulnerable, and disposable — and she'd been disposed of.

 

She'd gotten Renking’s attention by making trouble among the little people, and he'd moved her to where she couldn't make any trouble that _ he _ couldn't handle. He'd outplayed her from the first, just like he’d outplayed her when he’d snatched Pryce Mining on Lothal.

 

And what had he said about that? The doonium had been worth a lot of trouble. A lot of trouble — that was what he'd called Lothal, wasn't it?  _ Unruly and a potential pain in the rear.  _ Just what Arihnda had made herself by harassing the Chesna Barkers of Coruscant. Just what Alderaan seemed to be. Worth a lot of trouble. A lot of trouble to pacify — or a lot of trouble to mollify. Doonium was something the empire had wanted. Peace and quiet in his districts was something Renking had wanted.

 

Could she have leveraged that differently?

 

The Empire was terrified, Arihnda knew, of what masses of people might do, especially on the Outer Rim — far more terrified than Renking had ever been of one unruly representative costing him a few false friends. The person who kept the masses happily obedient might be worth a lot of trouble. And it might be worth a lot to those same masses to behave, themselves, as long as the incentives were framed correctly.

 

Perhaps Bail was right. Maybe the road to her ambitions didn't run through a single, powerful benefactor’s garden of interests. Maybe it twined through the tiny garden plots of hundreds of millions of Daisies, instead.

 

She would like, at least, to test the theory. And she thinks she knows who to visit, to do a little test of her own.

 

~*~

 

It doesn’t take long after knocking for someone to open the door.

 

“Arihnda?”

 

What surprises Arihnda most is probably just that: that Daisie remembers her.

 

Arihnda remembers Daisie, of course. Arihnda remembers almost everyone. She remembers this building, too. She’d walked the halls enough. She’s not surprised, entirely, that Daisie is still living here.

 

But she’s surprised at the way Daisie is looking at her: wondering and uncertain, hopeful and cautious and confused.

 

“I didn’t know you were — do you want to come in?” Daisie’s tone is a mix of authentic wariness and polite manners.

 

“I’d like that,” says Arihnda, trying to sound friendly, “if it’s not too much trouble.”

 

“No, no, please come in.” Daisie takes a little longer than she needs to to decide to shut the door.

 

The apartment looks the way Arihnda remembers, too — but she waits for Daisie to tell her to take a seat in the living room.

 

“Do you want some tea?” Daisie asks from behind her.

 

“Oh, yes, thank you,” says Arihnda, eyes picking over the little details. The repair work from Daisie’s old water leak is clearly visible: shoddy, cheap, and careless. The water damage has been replaced by swaths of putty and spackle and never painted over, or even sanded down. That was something Arihnda could have fixed, if she’d stuck around. If she hadn’t gotten exactly what she wanted from Renking and jetted off after without so much as a backward glance. It was something she could have fixed from Bartanish Four, really, if she had bothered to think of Daisie as a person towards whom she had even the vaguest obligation, instead of just a pawn she’d used for a clever little move, easily discarded.

 

It’s something she might have fixed, obligations or not, if she’d bothered to think of Daisie as a person at all.

 

“Are you… working here again?” Daisie asks, bringing a tray of tea from the kitchen. There is not much she can do to mask her own confusion, poor woman, but she knows what good manners are and she tries.

 

Arihnda smiles a little wanly. “No, I’m not. But I was… thinking about it. About what it was like, when I worked here.”

 

Daisie nods a little, one of those non-verbal non-comments that takes up space where a reply should go, and pours tea for them both.

 

“Thank you Daisie,” says Arihnda. She takes a sip. It’s a purple, fruity liquid, sweet but clearly not sweetened. She sets the cup down. “Actually, Daisie, I wanted to know how things have been since I left.” She gestures at the wall. “I see that was never properly finished, for instance.”

 

Daisie frowns, and Arihnda can practically see her withdrawing. Criticizing the government is a tricky business, especially for someone like Daisie, with very little in the way of resources, and still less that might offer social protection.

 

Arihnda leans forward, and touches Daisie’s elbow softly. “If you’re wondering, I think I made a mistake going to Bartanish Four. I’m from Lothal, you know; I’m here because the Empire took my family’s mine.” Which is not completely true, but certainly seems like the smart play. “I thought I’d be able to make a difference here.” Also a spin on the truth, but not so bad, she decides. “But between you and me, I think I had more of a chance to do good here, than where I went. I just — can you keep a secret?”

 

Daisie looks skeptical a minute longer, than nods, quickly. “I’m thinking of trying to come back. I just want to know what I should expect, if I do.”

 

And that’s the test. If Daisie opens up to her now, it’s a vote of confidence. She might be for Arihnda what Bail’s citizens are to him: a constituent. That is to say, one small unit that, when bundled with many other such units, provides a powerbase that might be leveraged or exploited to put pressure on, or draw concessions from, the Imperial establishment.

 

If Daisie doesn’t open up…

 

“It’s been awful,” Daisie says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So eventually they might get around to talking about it, but in case they don't: yes, the scar is from that incident in Outbound Flight where Maris saved his life. TBH I don't remember if that was violent enough to leave a scar, but to borrow a phrase from a friend: My AU, My Rules. (They are 110% [eventually] gonna talk about the Outbound Flight and about Doriana being a lying liar who lies and Thrass being dead because Thrawn believed those lies, but I just don't know if they're also gonna talk about Thrawn's big fat crush on the girl who got away.)


	7. An Attitude of Service, Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arihnda discovers that Thrawn has been laboring under a rather troubling misapprehension. Thrawn suggests that some of Arihnda's strategies might not be as wonderful as she would like him to believe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Probably important context to note that for the purposes of this story... Thrawn genuinely is an exile, or at least that's what Arihnda would have seen in the copy of his service record that she read a few chapters ago.

_ 'A general's principle talent consists in knowing the mentality of the soldier and in winning his confidence.’ - Napoleon Bonaparte _

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Daisie gives her a great deal of useful information. The situation is more or less as it was when she had first arrived on Coruscant: Renking’s citizens are unable, on most days, to contact any of his aides. Those they do reach are, generally, apathetic. Lack of ambition, Arihnda thinks derisively — or perhaps they had seen what it had taken her so long to realize: the Daisies of the world don’t offer much, unless you know how to use them. Arihnda feels a little touch of pride at having figured out part of that puzzle on her own, and some genuine satisfaction at what she considers a potential improvement on the technique thanks to Bail.

 

Probably her approach to the issue is not what Bail himself would hope, but he doesn’t need to know exactly what’s in the inside of her head. And no one’s given him the corner on problem-solving, either. She will incorporate advice from Thrawn as well — and on some points, she expects they will differ. And in the end, she decides at last, it is her own opinions that will matter most. Her opinions, rooted in her own experience. In her own knowledge. Because she knows people like Daisie.

 

Because she knows where they come from.

 

“I think I’m going to take a trip home,” she says when Thrawn calls her at their scheduled time. Perhaps he really had skipped the other day because he’d heard from Yularen. It bothers her a bit, but not quite enough to ask.

 

“Oh?” he asks.

 

“Yes. I’ll tell you about it tonight.”

 

“I have time now.”

 

She almost misses her next turn. “You won’t have time later?”

 

“I can arrange for it, but I see no reason to delay our discussion.”

 

“Right.” She takes another turn, angles down a level. “You're busy with something else?”

 

“Jakeeb is testing some interesting modifications to our communications equipment. I should like to be present for as much of the testing as is possible.”

 

“Oh. But you’ll make time anyway?”

 

There’s a short silence. Then: “I will, yes. Why are you returning to Lothal?”

 

She turns again and angles her speeder down another level. “I’ll tell you about it tonight. What time will you be by?”

 

Another little silence. “Eight seems to have been convenient thus far.”

 

“Yes. It still is. I’ll see you then.”

 

“Indeed. I will have a data card for you, loaded with Colonel Yularen’s sniffer program of choice. It would be safest to deploy it using a workstation other than your own. If possible —”

 

“Yes, I know. I’ll use Driller’s workstation,  _ obviously _ ,” she says, taking another turn. 

 

“Obviously indeed,” he says.

 

“Obviously indeed,” she echoes back. “I’ll see you at eight.”

 

She spends the rest of her day doing her own digging into the things Daisie’s told her. She considers stopping at the Proam Avenue Citizens’ Assistance Office, where she will likely find Allstair Sinclair just returning from lunch, but he’d never developed a real affection for her — difficult, she supposes, when she’d secured her job with him by persuading him to toss someone else out on their ear. He’d been impressed with her directness and her work ethic, of course, but in rather the same way one is impressed with the lissome agility of a poisonous snake.

 

Instead, she chooses one of Renking’s own CAOs.

 

It’s exactly as ragged and underfunded as she remembers, and clearly managed by someone with less of an eye for detail than she’d brought with her to Bartanish Four. There’s scuffing on the floor and dust on the tops of the workstations — she’d had too few droids, many of them poorly functioning, for too much mess, herself, but she’d never let her own office become so visibly  _ decrepit.  _ She’d turn up herself before hours, and on free days, to fix problems like that, and sometimes she’d even press Juahir to come help. Appearances weren’t everything, Arihnda knew, but they were still, in most cases, at least  _ half  _ the issue.

 

Arihnda targets the freshest face she can find: a straw-haired boy of twenty, with a round jaw and bright hazel eyes. She introduces herself as an advocate, says she’s looking to increase Imperial funding to social safety net programs, and especially to CAOs — and  _ especially  _ to CAOs serving populations primarily from Outer Rim worlds. Ensuring that the Empire was providing equity with the mid-rim and the core was a  _ top  _ priority, of course — how often, would the fresh-faced aide say, did the office receive a request they didn’t have the resources to fulfill? That often, really. Not a  _ surprise,  _ really — not your fault, dear, of  _ course —  _ but... Did the office have a breakdown, maybe, of their aggregate operational statistics? Requests made versus clients served, grouped by request  _ type  _ perhaps? Yes? Oh,  _ superior.  _ And would Arihnda be able to get a copy, perhaps? Taken together with some samples from other CAOs it would help  _ ever so much  _ with a presentation for —

 

Arihnda leaves feeling quite satisfied, and carrying a data card loaded with a great deal more than a few operational statistics. The young man she’d spoken to had been keen, eager, and  _ profoundly stupid _ not to redirect her back to Renking’s main office, but he’d been a useful kind of stupid.

 

She’ll have to figure out how to weed out the stupid ones in every position when she’s governor. Right after she figures out how to get rid of Renking.

 

She spends the rest of the day reading the information she’s obtained from the charming idiot at the CAO, and grouping it, in her own mind, into discrete and manageable problem sets. She’s still reading when eight rolls around, and a polite knock disrupts her.

 

She likes what the knocking represents, but — “You can just let yourself in, you know,” she says opening the door. “It’s alright.”

 

“I thought perhaps you would appreciate some deference for your living quarters,” he says, passing her, and turning at the end of the entryway.

 

“I do, rather,” she says. It's nowhere near the top of her mind when she speaks but Arihnda, for all her standoffish habits, has hardly ever lived alone. “And,” she goes on, “it’s not lost on me that you started after… After the other day.”  _ After the day before last, when you were an ass and I yelled at you,  _ is what she means.

 

“Indeed,” he says.

 

“But I like that you can come and go,” she says.

 

“Do you?”

 

“Yes. Very much, in fact. I just… would prefer if you would moderated some of your other behaviors a little.”

 

One raised eyebrow. “Indeed.”

 

And she doesn’t particularly feel like digging any deeper into that particular area, so — “Is Jakeeb done with his tests?”

 

“No, but they are done for the  _ day. _ ”

 

“So you’ll be staying?”

 

He smiles rather thinly. “Are you asking?”

 

“I — well, you’re welcome if you want to, is what I’m saying.”

 

The smile is still there — not quite  _ happy.  _ Wry, and a little — a little something else, that she can’t quite place. “I see you are still concerned that I feel I am accommodating myself to what is possible,” he says softly. And his expression is almost soft, too. Almost the soft thing she’s seen before, when she asked about practicing. “But I think,” he continues, just as softly, “we have reached a comfortable understanding, do you not agree?” And then, tone somewhat more direct, he adds: “Also, I should like to review some of Jakeeb’s test results before he begins again tomorrow. We may make some minor adjustments to his designs”

 

Some part of her brain, like an old magnetic storage unit, is stuck on a skipping place, spitting out some kind of strange sentiment that falls between protest and alarm and makes her almost open mouth to say, bizarrely,  _ that’s not what I meant  —  _ A reaction to be filed for examination later, she decides. Confusing, and hard to see the end of, and not something, she thinks, you can really say to a person after a barely more than a week. And all of it is filed for later. 

 

She makes an almost imperceptible motion with her body that rather counts as shaking something off, and says, brusque but meant to be lively: “Well, while you’re here, I have something I’d like to show you. It’s related to my trip to Lothal.”

 

“Oh?”

 

“Yes. I think I told you, going to Tarkin I have to offer him more than just my own part in an ISB arrest?”

 

“Naturally. You said you intended to offer him information on Lothal’s mineral resources — and you felt you had enough contacts, maintained through your work at Higher Skies, to gather significantly more information than the Empire currently has available. I believe you are of the opinion that miners who are reluctant to expose their interests to Imperial intervention will nonetheless be willing to share accounts of their circumstances with you, for personal reasons. I presume you think it will be easier to gather this information face-to-face, than by high-speed transmission?”

 

“Exactly. And I’ll get more than that, too, I hope.” And she breezes past him to the table, pulls up the reports from the CAO. “I went to talk to one of my old clients, from my first job for Renking. Putting an ear to the ground, is that the military expression?”

 

“It is used by ground combat personnel, but yes, I know it.”

 

“Right. Well. It was because of something Bail said, actually. He proposed that I think of… Well, first of all, he believes very firmly that I wasn’t working  _ for Renking  _ when I worked for Renking, but for his constituents instead. And he explained his own career in similar terms — service to the people.”

 

Thrawn, looking at her attentively, says: “I believe I understand the concept.”

 

“I thought you might. It didn’t seem far off from some of your ideas about trust, to be frank. Not quite the idealistic pablum I expected.”

 

“Oh? I am more interested to meet him by the moment.”

 

“I'm sure you are. Anyway, his career’s been  _ very  _ good. The Senate is different than a Governorship, but some of the same techniques might apply, I expect. So: I went to speak to one of my old clients, to get an idea of… To see if I could make her trust me, after a fashion.”

 

Something that might be a frown passes quickly over Thrawn’s face, and is washed away just as quickly by his usual mild and attentive neutrality. “And did you?” he asks.

 

“I think I did,” Arihnda says, half crooning.

 

“What makes you think so?”

 

“She shared her… complaints. About Coruscant. Renking. The Empire, to an extent.”

 

“Valuable context for dealing with other such citizens, I imagine,” he says, still looking at her closely.

 

“Yes, I expect it will be. I went to one of Renking’s CAOs — sorry, Citizen’s Assistance Offices — to get an idea of how much her impression scaled up. You have battle plans, politicians have —”

 

“Policy issues,” he says, lifting the data pad out of her hand. “Water shortages account for 30% of the complaints received by citizens’ assistance offices?” he asks, frowning.

 

“Yes, well, that’s pretty standard for Coruscant. We got a lot of those at Bartanish Four and Proam Avenue, too. And the lower the levels the worse the living conditions, of course.”

 

“I had a conversation with Colonel Yularen about that issue,” Thrawn says, still frowning at the data pad. “How frequent are power outages in the Imperial center?”

 

“If you mean in the palace or the senate or anywhere on the upper levels, they never happen. Lower down —”

 

“I see.”

 

“Yes, I’m sure you do. But the specifics here aren’t my point.”

 

“No?” he lowers the pad, looks at her again. “What was your point?”

 

“My point is:  _ this _ is why I’m going to Lothal.”

 

“Indeed,” he says. He doesn’t sound quite as impressed as she’d hoped.

 

“Yes. It was —” She grits her teeth for a moment. “You reminded me, about what I said to Uvis. About people coming in with grand ideas about how to lift Lothal out of the dust, and why it doesn’t work.”

 

“You hope to avoid the mistake.”

 

“I’d like to remind people that I’m one of them.”

 

“You believe that by applying a personal touch with your old family friends and business contacts you will win their personal loyalty and support for Imperial policies when you are installed as governor.”

 

“Well, that and a sense of what minefields to try and avoid. Outer Rim planets can be a little…” She shuffles through her repertoire of descriptives, and comes across Renking’s own phrase: “ _ Unruly _ . It will be good to have an idea of what will upset people.”

 

He glances back at the data pad. “May I ask a question?”

 

Which in the space of just over a week she’s come to recognize as code for  _ may I be brutally asinine?  _ “Yes,” she says. “Of course.”

 

“These constituents of yours — they will surely expect you to offer solutions of some sort to their various dilemmas.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Like these water shortages.”

 

“Yes. And of course I haven’t solved all of the Empire’s problems in the course of an afternoon. Besides, solutions aren’t necessarily the most useful things to me.”

 

“Are they not?”

 

“No. Interests, desires, and incentives, however —”

 

“I see,” he says coldly, cutting her off. He glances at the data pad again. “May I share an observation? One based on my own, personal, experience?”

 

She grits her teeth, again. “Of course.”

 

“I do not believe I would retain the loyalty of my subordinates if I were careless or inattentive in the matter of their welfare. A leader’s people are more than merely units of resources, although they must sometimes be asked to endure things that they would not prefer.”

 

She locks her jaw for a moment. “I expect Bail would agree with you on that,” she grinds out. Then she takes a deep, calming breath. “I expect some of these issues will be easy to solve with staffing changes,” she says dismissively. “I solved problems like this in the Lothal housing units, and at Bartanish Four, and at Proam Avenue all the time. On a case-by-case basis most of them were easy to fix by ensuring existing regulations were  _ actually _ applied — I think told you that.”

 

“Yes, you mentioned something to that effect. And the rest of the problems? The ones that were less easy to solve?”

 

She snatches the data pad out of his hand, and turns to set it on the table. “Let’s wait and see what problems I really have to worry about, why don’t we?”

 

He gives her a look up and down. “Of course.” Then he fishes in a pocket of his jodhpurs, quickly, and holds out a data card. “Colonel Yularen’s sniffer program. I trust you will deploy it tomorrow?”

 

She looks at the card for a minute, then at his face, impassive, then back at the card. She takes it gingerly from his fingers. “Of course,” she says, looking back at his face. 

 

His expression is still perfectly impassive. “Do you have an idea yet,” he asks lightly, “of when I should be available to help Senator Organa make flattering inferences about you?”

 

Light tone notwithstanding it somehow sounds a great deal more cool and businesslike from his mouth than she’d meant it when describing it herself yesterday. “I haven’t gotten anything scheduled yet,” she says, “but I expect two days from now, maybe three. I’ll let you know, of course.”

 

“Of course.” 

 

She tilts her head a little. “Would you like to read the letters he collected? You asked before.”

 

He raises an eyebrow. “And you demurred,” he says, almost gently. “You have changed your mind — you wish me to read them so I will better understand the impression you wish Senator Organa to recieve of you?” And the tone of that is not unkind.

 

But it’s not — “No,” she says, frowning and blinking. She feels the same strange, alarmed skip in her mind. She almost says, again,  _ that’s not what I meant.  _ Then she shakes it off, again, and says: “Well, maybe that too, I guess.”

 

“I will certainly read them.” He says it quite politely. “You have a copy?”

 

“You can have the original,” she says after a moment, peering at him narrowly. She turns a little, retrieves the data card from the table. Strange, she thinks to herself, not really in words, as she moves: strange and awful, the way he can be so close to her, sometimes, close to her body, and then — he doesn’t turn cold, really. It is more like he is putting out his hand, touching her shoulder, holding her precisely at a distance. Close one moment, at arm’s length the next. Close to her one moment, done with her the next. Strange and hard to follow. She files that for later, too. “You’ll be going now, then?” She asks as he lifts the data card from her fingers.

 

“Yes, but I should have more time tomorrow.”

 

And she knows, she thinks, that her response to that should be — ”Good,” she says. “We’ll talk tomorrow.”

 

~*~

 

Returning to the office is less quiet than she’d hoped. Driller comes directly to her workstation. 

 

“How are you feeling?” If it’s not real worry, it’s a very good imitation.

 

“I’m fine, Driller, really,” Arihnda says, trying to wave him off. “I just felt a little under the weather —”

 

“Arihnda,” he says, frowning, looking almost awkward, not usual for him, “Juahir’s worried.  _ I’m  _ worried. We’re both — she says you haven’t been home in two days. You’re not acting like yourself. We’ve both known you a long time, we’re —” he drops his voice low — “we’re worried. She told me what happened with Ottlis at the dojo. If he did something — Juahir has friends in the capitol police, I know people at the justice department, if he did something to you, we can help you report it. We can —”

 

“God, Driller, no,” says Arihnda, suddenly standing very straight, what little color there is in her face utterly drained. “God, no, it’s  _ nothing  _ like that.” She takes a breath. “I promise I’ll talk to Juahir. And I promise nothing’s wrong. I really was just feeling under the weather. I appreciate your concern, but —” she reaches out, and touches his arm, just above the elbow — “I’m  _ really  _ fine.” She takes another breath, wills her expression to brighten some more. “And I think I’m making progress with Senator Hem. I’ll be working remote most of the week, but —”

 

“It’s fine, Arihnda. As long as you’re — it’s fine. You’re sure you’re doing okay?”

 

“I’m really fine, I promise.” And then, though the feeling is not, at the moment, as easy to catch as she’d like, she digs deep in her gut and pulls up a spark of the one good feeling she still has, and wills it to show on her face. “I wasn’t thinking about Juahir much this weekend, I’m afraid.” It has the tone of a coy confession.

 

“Oh!” says Driller, concern melting into something Arihnda considers much more manageable. “Oh, well.” He grins at her. “I guess Juahir is being a little melodramatic.”

 

“Possibly. I’ll talk to her. Thank you, Driller.”

 

“Anytime.” He takes a step back, then leans towards her again. “Any chance we’ll get to meet the mystery man?” he asks, conspiratorial.

 

Arihnda produces a laugh she’s practiced many times: low and brief and chime-like. She produces a practiced smile, too. “Maybe,” she says. 

 

If Thrawn stays involved in this aspect of the Nightswant investigation after the arrests, Arihnda thinks, working to keep a sudden nastiness off of her face, that  _ maybe _ is definitely a yes.

 

~*~

 

Most of the office takes lunch at the same time; it’s not so unusual for Arihnda to work through it. That she stays behind, alone, doesn’t draw comment.

 

And Driller’s workstation is left, predictably, unsecure. Deploying the sniffer program takes less than three minutes.

 

She makes a note to herself about that, too: she might have to encourage her staff and constituents to trust her — she’s seen how Thrawn’s subordinates are towards him, she’s tested the waters with Daisie, she takes the point — but she can never, she decides, trust them.  

 

~*~

 

She’s at the little cafe in the Senate building when Thrawn calls.

 

“How were the tests?” she asks.

 

“Promising. I can tell you about them in more detail later, if you wish.”

 

“Please. And did you read the letters?”

 

“I did. You are a talented actress.”

 

She stops mid-stride. Someone behind her makes an irritated huff, brushes her shoulder as they skirt around her. Thrawn’s tone wasn’t insulting, she doesn’t think, and it wasn’t unkind, but — “Yes,” she says, thinly, gathering herself, “I think I am.” And then, frowning, she asks: “Is that all you got out of them?”

 

“Not all, no.” There’s a rustling in the background on his end, and the sound of a voice she thinks she knows, and then Thrawn speaks again: “Unfortunately other matters intervene. We can continue this discussion later.”

 

“Of course,” she says. She shakes her head as she takes the earpiece out, as if shaking something off.

 

“Arihnda,” comes a friendly voice from somewhere to her left, “everything good?”

 

She looks up, sees Bail cutting across the plaza towards her, a single gold-plated droid tottering after him.

 

“Yes, thank you Senator,” she says, slipping a mask of manners into place.

 

“Good, good — I’m glad I ran into you, actually. I know I said to bring our friend around this week, but I won’t be available. Being called away, some private business — you understand.”

 

“Of course, Senator.”

 

The droid catches up to them. “Senator, your schedule,” it says in the prissiest voice Arihnda’s ever heard in a droid.

 

“Yes, thank you threepio,” says Bail sharply, as if the droid has said this exact thing many times already. He turns his attention back to Arihnda: “You’ll be around next week?”

“I must insist —” the droid interrupts again.

 

Bail cuts it off: “I  _ know,  _ threepio.” Then he looks at Arihnda, expectant.

 

“Of course, Senator,” she says. She hasn’t set her trip to Lothal yet. She can accommodate this.

 

“Senator —” the droid starts again. Arihnda stares at it.

 

“ _ I know,”  _ Bail says. Then he smiles at Arihnda apologetically. “Sorry. He’s a worrier. So, next week some time?”

 

“Ah, yes Senator,” she says.

 

“Good, I’ll see you then. Come on, threepio.”

 

Arihnda herself can’t fathom keeping a droid that…  _ uncivilized _ . She shakes her head again, gently — but her confusion at Bail’s taste in machinery isn’t really something she feels a need to shake off. 

 

Quite the opposite, in fact. There was something a little comical in the truly unprofessional display, and she finds it’s lifted the mood of the — of the moment, maybe. 

 

And she is here, after all, to keep unraveling the thread of Lady Hem’s preferences, not to dwell on Thrawn’s offhand comments. Being a pleasant and approachable mood herself will help.

 

~*~

 

She gets her next bit of direction from one of Senator Gall Trayvis’ aides. She and the aide are sitting side by side in the gallery, watching Trayvis and Hem debating the use of the Treason statute. 

 

“The Empire’s favorite criminal charge,” Trayvis is saying, “as overused as it is misunderstood — if every word of dissent is treason, we can expect the Emperor to lock up the Senate next!”

 

“Violations of the law are treason in its purest form,” Hem begins in his strange, guttural voice. “We are an Empire of laws, of order and process. To disobey the law is to undermine the Empire itself. Without obedience to the laws —”

 

Arihnda turns very subtly to the aide. “Do you think he’d be such a hard-liner if he weren’t trying to shake off his world’s old CIS association?” she asks.

 

“Makers, no,” the aide murmurs back. “And everyone knows it’s half an act. He’s not  _ nearly  _ so hard if you catch him off hours — over a drink with his wife, he sings a rather different tune. He and Gall are quite good friends outside this building, actually. Although his loyalism’s real enough.”

 

“Is it? How interesting. Where does he usually go for drinks?”

 

“Looking to get back in the building permanently, Arihnda?” It’s said with a smile. “I think advocacy suits you better.”

 

“I think it suits me, too. And,” she adds, smiling back, “you didn’t answer my question.”

 

“No,” the aide says, says smiling a little more thinly, “guess I didn’t.”

 

Which is not the best response. But Arihnda’s gotten on with less. If she has to visit every restaurant on Coruscant and bribe every head waiter she meets, she’ll find the places Senator Hem takes his wife.

 

It may take weeks, but she’ll get there.

 

~*~

 

After listening to as much at the Senate as she can stomach, Arihnda heads to Juahir’s apartment.

 

_ I promise I’ll talk to Juahir.  _ She has a feeling it’s going to come back around from Driller if she doesn’t.

 

“Arihnda?” 

 

Juahir stops in the doorway when she comes in. Arihnda is lounging on the little couch, staring at the wall, just waiting.

 

“Hello,” Arihnda says, still looking at the wall.

 

For a long minute Juahir just stands there. Arihnda call feel her looking, just looking. Finally Juahir says: “Did you have a good weekend?”

 

“It was alright.”

 

“Okay. Okay. Arihnda — can I ask — ”

 

“I appreciate that you’re concerned, Juahir, and I appreciate Driller’s concern, too. He told me you too had talked — ”

 

“We’re worried!”

 

“Ottlis didn’t  _ rape  _ me, Juahir,” Arihnda snaps, her anger at Juahir and Driller both beginning to simmer hotly in her chest again. “I gather that you both think that something of the sort happened.”

 

Juahir drops her bag and crosses to the kitchen. “Arihnda, neither us has any idea what to think —”

 

“You don’t have to worry about it.”

 

“Then what’s been going on?”

 

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

 

Juahir leans on the counter. “What happened at the dojo wasn’t — Arihnda, that was not normal.”

 

“I’m aware.”

 

“Are you going to tell me what it was about?”

 

“No.”

 

“Okay.” Juahir takes a breath, drags her hand through her hair. “Well, he’s banned from the dojo. H’sishi says you can come back, but you have to talk to her —”

 

“I won’t be going back to Yinchom.”

 

Juahir takes another breath. “Arihnda —”

 

“I just wanted to come by and let you know that I’m fine.”

 

“Arihnda,” Juahir says, voice dropping low and turning soft, “you don’t  _ seem  _ fine. I mean, where did you sleep the last three nights? What’s going on?”

 

Somehow, with great effort, Arihnda takes a long, slow breath, picks a spot at the carpet to look at instead of Juahir’s face, and forces a lid over the place where her rage is beginning to boil up. “I was staying somewhere else.”

 

“Well, that’s obvious. Are you staying with that guy?”

 

Arihnda doesn’t answer.

 

“So,” says Juahir, pouring herself a glass of whiskey, “I guess you don’t wanna tell me how that’s going, either.”

 

Arihnda’s head snaps up. “What’s that supposed to mean?” 

 

“Nothing — just — look,” says Juahir sighing heavily, “you’re not always easy, you know?”

 

“So I’ve been told,” Arihnda snarls. She’s getting a little sick, after the past few days, of being  _ told _ .

 

“No, I mean — I know you care, Arihnda. I know you care for your family, and your friends, and your job. And I know you’re — you’ve always been there for me, but sometimes it seems like… Sometimes you act like you don’t care about anything but what someone can give you, you know? Like you give the impression of being, I don’t know, like a droid sometimes. And I know that’s not true, and that you just aren’t always good at talking about your feelings, especially since —” Juahir looks down at her glass. Arihnda waits. Juahir looks back up. “I know it’s been hard since Renking —” Juahir stops again. “I know you don’t like to talk about that.”

 

“You’re right.” Arihnda’s voice is cold and clipped. “I don’t.”

 

“Okay. Well. I know you don’t like to — I’m just wondering if it’s going okay, with that guy.”

 

“It’s going fine,” Arihnda snaps.

 

Juahir looks at her for a long time. “Is it?”

 

Arihnda doesn’t answer.

 

Juahir sighs. “Look, I hope it is. I really do. But you’re in a constant kriffing mood, and it’s only been a week, so I have to wonder if whatever’s going on there is a good idea. For you, I mean. Or if it’s working. I’m your friend. I worry. I believe you like him, whoever he is, and that he’s not hurting you, I don’t want to believe you’d put up with that, but… I don’t know. If you’re not getting what you want — People want to be liked, Arihnda. People like to feel liked.”

 

“I understand that, Juahir —”

 

“I know you understand it! But sometimes when you’re not monitoring yourself —” Juahir cuts herself off again, sets her drink down, takes a breath. “Look, you seem pretty unhappy. I think that means you should stop, but you don’t really change your mind about stuff. So, I’m taking a shot in the dark here, but if you’re not getting what you need, maybe there’s something you can change. If he hasn’t known you as long as I have, Arihnda… It’s pretty obvious it’s not going as well as it could. And I wonder if it’s because you’re giving the impression you just want things from him, instead of liking him, whoever he is. Because you… you do that, sometimes. I’m sorry for being so blunt about it, but…”

 

“No, it’s fine, Juahir,” Arihnda says. She sounds very strange, even to her own ears. She feels strange, too, like something is falling into place.

 

Juahir gives her a long look. “So it’s not going as well as you want, huh?”

 

“Maybe not,” says Arihnda.

 

“On one minute, off the next?”

 

“Something like that.”

 

“Hot and heavy sometimes flames out fast,” Juahir offers sympathetically.

 

“I know,” says Arihnda.

 

“You wanna talk about it?”

 

“Not really.”

 

“Okay,” says Juahir. “Do you wanna drink about it?”

 

Arihnda considers that, for a moment. “No, not really. But thank you, Juahir.” 

 

“Sure,” says Juahir. “Anytime. Are you staying here tonight?”

 

“No,” says Arihnda, slowly rising from the couch, “I think I’ll be going now. I’ll see you, Juahir.” 

 

~*~

 

_ Sometimes you act like you don’t care about anything but what someone can give you. _

 

It echoes inside her all the way back to the hotel. 

 

And Arihnda begins to wonder, herself, if she is giving the impression of wanting certain  _ things _ from Thrawn, and not wanting him.

 

Back in her hotel room, she sits at the table and tries to tease the question apart.

 

She can feel a frown etched on her features; each time she tries, consciously, to smooth it away, it creeps back. It creeps back as she tries to walk herself through the roughly week and a half that has transpired since Ottlis Dos showed her into a room with Moff Ghadi.

 

She tries to walk herself through one aspect of that time, at least.

 

She tries to walk herself through everything that has transpired between herself and Thrawn, tries to assess if it’s possible that he might think — 

 

There are the things Juahir has said to her. There are things Bail and Yularen have said to her. There are things she knows about herself. She tries to assess if she might have given, or might be giving the impression that…  _ You are a talented actress.  _

 

He lets himself in, with her permission this time, at eight on the nose.

 

She is still wrestling with the new, strange puzzle Juahir has handed her.

 

“Did you have any difficulty deploying Colonel Yularen’s program?” he asks without preamble.

 

“No,” she says. She is still frowning. It’s not a particularly attractive expression, she knows: it’s a deep, unhappy frown, not a soft, worried moue, or a gentle mask of concern. It’s a hard expression, almost angry. She tries yet again, as best she can, to smooth it away. “May I ask you something?”

 

“Of course,” he says, walking towards her. 

 

“Would you — if I asked you stay — after — would you do it?” She sounds, and feels, like is asking her parents if they would choose different lives, if they could. “Would you want to?”

 

He stops at the end of the entryway. Perhaps it is something in her tone that stops him. He tilts his head, and a strange, soft thing almost like pity passes like a shadow over his face. Then he looks at her head-on. “It is logistically inconvenient for me to spend the night here for several reasons,” he says, voice polite. And then, a little more freely, he adds: “And as I have tried to say before, you need not feel obligated to prove —”

 

“Do you think I’m having sex with you so you’ll show up at Bail’s office and read off a script?” she cuts across him.

 

Thrawn’s eyebrows more or less leap into his hairline. He blinks once, twice, three times, face returning to its normal neutrality, before answering. He says, very carefully: “That interpretation of events had occurred to me, yes.”

 

Arihnda hasn’t precisely prepared for that answer. She hasn’t prepared for any answer, of course, but this is almost the worst of all possible responses. She sits back against the chair as if she’s been pushed. “Oh,” she says.

 

“You are going to tell me that I am not correct?”

 

She takes a breath.  _ Yes  _ is such a little word, such a simple thing to say —

 

“I do not think you are selling me the one thing for the other in nearly so crass a manner, although I see you are concerned about giving such an impression,” he goes on, tone surprisingly easy. “You need not be. I believe that you enjoy what we do, although you may have stretched the borders of your preferences a little, which effort I appreciate, and I do not feel lied to, if that is your concern. Certainly I do not object to your focus on your own advancement. I believe I said yesterday that I think we have reached a comfortable understanding. It is not, naturally, what I initially intended, but it is certainly convenient — and I am obviously aware that benefits will accrue to me from your preferred arrangement between us. I am, of course, ‘accommodating myself to what is possible,’ which I recall you found upsetting, but this is the nature of life. I am not thinking of ‘backing out,’ as the phrase goes, if that is your concern.”

 

“Oh,” she says again. And there’s something in her own voice that sounds, even to herself, a little automatic.  _ You’re like a droid sometimes.  _ Something in her chest feels like aching muscle. 

 

“If you are concerned that this means I have a low opinion of you, do not be. I assure you I have more than a little admiration for your determination to, as you put it, rescue yourself with the tools you have available.” And he does sound almost outright complimentary. “And I am happy to be one of them,” he continues, as if he thinks he is reassuring her, “as I find ambition reasonably attractive where it is married to ability. Some criticisms aside, I find that to be the case with you, and I expect this will continue to be a productive partnership.”

 

“Right,” she says. 

 

Mutual benefit. It was exactly what she's tried to tell him about politics a week and a half ago, sitting in that cheap room, on that cheap bed. It was exactly what Renking had tried to tell her about Coruscant the day he'd decided he was done with her. It was exactly the thing she'd been too naïve and too stupid to learn on her own. It's not even all that insulting, really, the way he says it. Not necessarily a bad way to let things stand. She could, in fact, continue on with what he calls a  _ comfortable understanding _ . 

 

Only she finds —  _ I like him too,  _ she’d said to Bail — that there’s really nothing comfortable about it. 

 

She takes a slow breath. “So you agree that you’ll benefit from my advancement, too.”

 

He takes a moment to answer. “Yes.” His voice is very precise.

 

She glances at him once, and sees a cautious kind of keenness on his face. Watching her, assessing her.

 

“Yes,” she echoes him. She twists her hands together: not wringing them, but clasping them one against the other like she is gripping something solid in a shifting sea, anchoring herself against the storm. Anchoring herself, for once since the start of this mess, to herself.  “And that’s valuable to you, what you’ll get.”

 

“Yes,” he says again.

 

“Yes,” she echoes. She feels a little ill. But not, strangely, uneven. Not uneasy. Almost as if she is finding the answer to something — a question she’s been puzzling over, unaware of, of what she wants. Of what she wants from him. Of what she can ask for, and of what she will accept. It wasn't the arrangement he'd intended, he'd said. And, she decides, although the decision does nothing to ease the ache in her chest, or the ill feeling in her gut, it's not the partnership she wants, either. She holds his gaze. When she speaks, her voice is carefully controlled: “I trust the result would still be worth something to you if we removed sex from the equation.”

 

The curiosity flows out of his face. In its place, descending like a bay door, is a look that even in such short time she’s come to know: a very specific mask, blank and subtly tense. Finally he says, perfectly and pointedly civil: “Yes, the end results would still be useful, I believe.”

 

She takes one deep breath, and then another, looks away from him, shoulders drooping slightly, and then says: “Good,” forcibly brusque. “That’s good.”

 

“You would have preferred me to object?” The tone of it is decidedly unamused, and barely patient. Almost angry.

 

She looks back at him. And he does look angry. 

 

And that makes her angry, too: a rush of fury, sudden and hot. “All anyone seems to want to tell me lately is how hollow of a person I am,” she snarls. “And that’s — that’s fine. Some of it’s been useful. But I didn’t — ” She takes a sharp breath, blows it out again, and says, half spitting despite every effort not to: “What you think about what I’ve asked you for and  _ why I’ve asked for it _ is wrong. And if that’s all you think I am, then I don’t want you to touch me.” She looks away from him abruptly, blinking as fast as she can. And, carried away on a wave of aching frustration, throat tight, voice thick with anger and other things besides, she adds, vehemently: “I’m worth more than that. Even if no one else seems to think so.”

 

Silence. Her breathing, soft if a little ragged. No noise from him. The low hum of building around them, the strange acoustic echo of mechanized environments, that only asserts itself in the absence of living sound.

 

And then he says, his own tone somewhat strange: “Ah.” She looks back at him, finds another familiar, unexpected expression. It is almost an echo, almost a mirror, of when she had told him about Ottlis. The pressure, the threat of his suspicion, given way to something strangely soft and sympathetic — “I understand,” he says. An exact mirror, almost, of when she had confessed the reason she had let Ottlis lure her so easily.

 

She doesn’t say anything.

 

Carefully, he speaks again: “Since I am, evidently, so deeply mistaken about your motives and desires, perhaps you would be so good as to explain them to me?”

 

“What?”

 

“I wish to know what caused you to agree to my initial proposal,” he says, voice calm and even, “and what prompted you to link your own ambitions back to it as quickly as possible, if not for the reasons I have inferred. I am, you understand, most curious.”

 

And Arihnda remembers with perfect clarity what had moved her to do both things. And the answer twists in her gut like nausea. Realizing he misunderstands things, sometimes, is one thing. Explaining this thing, specifically…  _ Because I wanted you to stay —  _ God, what an awful, what a humiliating, idiot, juvenile, schoolgirl — Her throat tightens.  

 

“Miss Pryce.” She looks back at him. His face looks as his voice sounds: soft, gentle, inquiring.

 

“Ottlis,” she whispers.

 

He tilts his head. “Yes?”

 

She flushes. “You were much, much better company than Ottlis,” she says. She twists her fingers together until the knuckles are white. “And I wanted…” She swallows. “I didn’t want you to leave.” 

 

“I see,” he says again, voice very strange indeed. And then, after a long minute, while Arihnda sits looking at her knees and burning with shame far worse than anything she felt when telling him about Ottlis in the first place, he says: “And after? When you turned the conversation to your ambitions so quickly?”

 

She flushes deeper, purses her lips for a moment. “The same reason,” she says at last, reluctantly. And then, because it seems to bear explanation, she says: “You didn’t seem interested  —” she flushes deeper, almost puce — “You were done with me, but —”

 

“You did not seem interested in more than a minimum of necessary contact,” he points out, with something very subtly defensive lacing through his even tone.

 

“Well maybe I was feeling a little worn down, after the evening I’d had,” she snaps back at him. The color drains from her face for a moment as she says it. “But I wanted you.” The color comes back to her cheeks, bright and hot. “I wanted to talk to you.”

 

“I see.” And that has the strange tone, too. His face looks strange, as well, like he is puzzling over something. “A curious way of making conversation,” he offers gently.

 

“We didn’t really have anything else to talk about,” she says, suddenly defensive.

 

“I am not complaining, only —” he seems to sober his expression with some effort — “making an observation.”

 

“I’d still be working through this plan for myself,” she snaps. “I didn’t invent it  _ for you.  _ I only meant that talking to you about it —”

 

“I understand,” he says evenly, holding up a hand. “May I ask another question?”

 

She shakes her head no, closes her eyes briefly, then says: “Yes. Of course.”

 

“Why did you select me? To help you with the problem of Ottlis Dos, and your so-called friends. If you have sufficient contacts to move a ship up the navy’s repair schedule, I presume you also have sufficient contacts to put you in touch with the ISB. I presume you had other options. People who knew you better. Friends, perhaps. I am aware that I have asked before but given the current discussion I wonder if it does not bear some re-examination.”

 

Arihnda knows it bears quite a bit of re-examination. She remembers, perfectly, spinning a plausible lie to cover her lack of a good answer, the first time he’d asked.

 

And she still doesn’t have a good answer. But she decides she might as well be honest, this time. “I don’t know,” she says. He raises an eyebrow, tilts his head, waits. “I don’t know.” She shakes her head, looks down at her hands lying in her lap, fingers now loosely laced together. “When Ottlis —” She tightens her fingers together again. “Ottlis took me home, after Ghadi was done with me, did I tell you that? Just like a gentleman,” she adds, voice bitter and wan. “He brought me right to my door — to make sure I didn’t go anywhere else, you understand. Juahir was out. I don’t know what I would have — Anyway, he brought me home and I…” She takes a slow breath. “I didn’t think about anything, at first. I made dinner and… I felt like a shuttlecraft on autopilot, really. And then I… Then it was like I woke up, I think. I realized I needed help and — I don’t know. I thought of you. You do so well at everything you do. I thought if anyone could help me —” She looks up. “And you’d remembered me, at Yinchom.”

 

“I see,” he says, even and quiet. He doesn’t add anything.

 

“What about you?” she asks. There is a hairline crack in her voice: hardly there at all, a fine line glittering in brittle glass. 

 

He tilts his head. “What about me?”

 

“You — why did you come to meet me? Without asking why, without — You just — Was it just because of Yinchom? Just because of Nightswan, I mean?”

 

He straightens his head, looks at her for a long moment, and then says: “It was because of Yinchom, yes.” He takes another moment, then continues: “But it was not only because of my investigation.”

 

Arihnda finds herself, suddenly, holding her breath.

 

“I expected some connection, naturally, and was not disappointed but —” Another pause. And then, softly: “I came because you asked for me.” There is something on his face that might almost be discomfort. He does not continue.

 

“Yes,” she says in a whisper. It is half confirmation of faint hope, half encouragement to him.

 

“Yes,” he repeats. “It is not… common…” he says, picking his way from word to the next, “that my assistance is requested. By anyone.”

 

“Yes,” she says again, very softly.

 

“And where it is offered,” he says carefully, “there is often, naturally, resistance.” He takes a long moment, the thing like discomfort hovering around his mouth, before speaking again. “You asked for me.” He pauses again, then adds: “And you asked for me at Yinchom, as well.”

 

“Did I?” she whispers.

 

“Yes. You spoke more to Colonel Yularen when we met at Ascension week than you did to me.” He pauses again. The tension around his mouth seems to grow worse for a moment, and there is tension around his eyes, too. “But you did not speak to him when we visited Yinchom.” Another pause. “You came to me.” 

 

“I wanted to know if you remembered me,” she murmurs, voice soft.

 

“But not, apparently, if anyone else remembered you,” he says. “And, yes,” he continues evenly, “of course I remembered you. As you remembered me.”

 

“Yes,” she echoes, “of course I did.”

 

There’s no real reason that it should be  _ of course  _ for either of them, but — 

 

Her eyes burn suddenly, and her vision blurs, and she slumps forward, squeezing her eyes shut, and puts her head in her hands. She feels flattened, as if the entire disastrous week and a half has struck her, all at once, in this moment. As if something about this conversation has knocked down the last strut propping her up.

 

In any case, her eyelashes are wet, if only a little, and her breathing is rough at its edges, if only barely, and she is far past being out of things to say.

 

She sits like that for some time. The room is silent again. Her breathing is steady and even, if a little harsh and loud. Thrawn, evidently, has patience for this, too. Or perhaps he simply doesn’t know what to do with it. Mistake, she thinks to herself. Stupid mistake, every bit of it, including this conversation — 

 

And then she feels a hand on her head. The light touch of fingers. She looks up. Thrawn has a quiet, studious expression on his face. He moves his hand, brushes his thumb just below her eye, smearing damp across her cheekbone. She looks away, blinking rapidly, and flushing again with frustration and embarrassment.

 

“Salt,” he says after a short moment.

 

She looks up. His thumb is hovering near his mouth.

 

She frowns, temporarily distracted — “Did you just —?”

 

“My people do not weep,” he continues, even and direct. “It is not that we do not feel grief. It is purely physiological.”

 

“I’m hardly weeping.”

 

“No?”

 

“No, and I’m not feeling grief. I’m just —” she rubs both of her hands vigorously over her face — “I’m just… I’m just a little tired.”

 

“I see.” There is another pause, and then he turns just enough to pull the nearest chair out from the table. When he sits, facing her, their knees are touching. He looks at her a minute longer: that strange, intense gaze, like a gravity well. “What, do you think,” he says, “should we do now?”

 

Arihnda hesitates. “I don't know about  _ should _ ,” she says warily.

 

“No?” He reaches out, and touches her face again. “What would you like to do, then?”

 

Arihnda swallows. His fingertips are pressed lightly to her cheek. His face is calm and expectant; she has the sense that she might really be able to ask — “I’d like —” she starts, then stops again. Much harder, really, to ask for this than to agree to be fucked. Much riskier, in most ways, and if he says no — She takes a rough breath, swallows, and speaks anyway: “I think I’d like — I’d like to be —” the hairline fracture in her voice breaks open wide, not cracked in two, but nearly — “I’d just like to be held, for a little while.”

 

There is a very brief, very frightening pause, where he holds her gaze, assessing, and she stays so still she doesn’t even breathe. It lasts barely more than a second. It feels a great deal longer. Then he slips his hand into her hair, cups the back of her head, and pulls — hardly more than a tug, just the gentle suggestion of coming towards him.

 

She leans forward in her chair, almost bends double against her thighs until his other hand on her ribs and his voice, saying, gently “ _ come, _ ” make it clear that she will have to leave her own chair and —

 

She crawls into his lap. Sideways at first and, when that proves unsatistfactory to both of them, face to face, straddling his hips. She has her arms around his neck, and her face pressed into the place where his neck meets his shoulder. She still isn’t crying, but her breathing is a little worn, and tense, and her muscles are a little rigid. One of his hands is curved softly against the back of her skull. The other travels a lazy, wandering path along her back, as if smoothing the tensions from her body could happen like smoothing a sheet.

 

“I said it had been an interesting week,” he says against her temple, softly, when her breathing and her body are both finally relaxed. She is slumped against his chest like a rag doll. “Perhaps difficult would have been a more appropriate word.” 

 

“Mm,” she says. She turns her head a little, nestles her face into his skin, and inhales deeply: pepper, and cedar, and salt. In the very primal base of her mind, the scent registers as safety. Another minute or so slides by. His hand is still moving against her back. “I’d like to take back what I said about not having sex anymore,” she says thickly into his neck.

 

He snorts, a dryly amused sound she is becoming familiar with. “I imagine that you would,” he says. There is a warm undercurrent almost like laughter in his tone.

 

“Don’t laugh at that,” she says, half-whining.

 

“No,” he says, voice light, hand moving through her hair gently, “I think I will.”

 

She doesn’t say anything to that, but she moves her arms: tightens them around his neck. His arms tighten around her in return, very briefly. Then he moves his hand once more along her back — first up, and then down — “How long do you think you wish to stay like this?”

 

She takes another deep, slow breath. “I’d like to stop thinking,” she says.

 

“Would you?”

 

She tightens her arms around him again, just a little. “Very much so.”

 

She can practically hear the curve in the corner of his mouth, can feel it in the way his hands whisper over her back. “I believe I can assist with that.” 

 

“Can you?” she whispers.

 

He coaxes her head off his shoulder cleverly with one hand, runs his thumb along her jaw while she looks at him. “If anyone can help you…” he says wryly, half-smiling.

 

Instantly, she makes a little moue and pulls back — “Don’t —” she starts in a whining tone.

 

“I do not mean it unkindly,” he murmurs, running his fingers through her hair. “Quite the opposite.” He moves his hand again, runs his thumb against her lips. “And it is my pleasure to be of service.” His tone is half dry. But only half.

 

“Is it?” she whispers.

 

“Yes.” His voice is still low. “Shall I show you?”

 

“Please,” she says. There is no innuendo in it; she means it utterly.

 

She can feel the next breath he takes, a deep thing that makes his body press into hers where their middles are close together. Then he takes his hand off her face, and twines his fingers through her hair. She takes a single deep breath of her own, anticipation and strange new trepidation. He pulls her head forward, a little, brings her halfway close, breathes in once more, making their bellies press together, low, for a moment, and then closes the distance between them.

 

It starts as a gentle kiss: his mouth is soft on hers, pliant, probing, patient, as if to say,  _ this is alright _ . 

 

It doesn't stay that way: she tightens her fingers against the fabric of his uniform and bites once, almost cruelly, at his upper lip, as if to say  _ come on with it _ . There is a very brief pause after, and then his hand tightens in her hair, and he responds in kind.

 

Open-mouthed and demanding, he cracks her open and presses in, and makes her yield, and yield, and yield.

 

She twines her arms around his shoulders, neck, head, twisting her grasp in his hair. He moves his hands in response, pulls her torso against him and digs his fingers into her, as if fierce pressure might bring her closer still.

 

When she whimpers into his mouth, he groans back, and when he groans she presses still tighter to him, as if the sound of his voice were pulling on a string anchored deep within her.

 

It goes on, and on, devouring and desperate, until Arihnda’s head is spinning.

 

She is pretty good at breathing through her nose, but the onslaught makes it hard to remember to breathe. And it's evidently something Thrawn’s half-forgotten, too, because when he breaks the kiss its with a kind of sudden desperation, half a gasp. His forehead is pressed to hers for a moment, and then he turns his head, and plants another kiss, still wet, careless and heavy and sloppy, against her jaw.

 

“Oh,” she whines, recovering her breath, “more.”

 

He groans again, a kind of answer, and moves his head, and plants another kiss just below her jaw: a hot brand.

 

“More,” she whines again. Her arms are wrapped around his head. 

 

He makes another low noise, kisses her again, lower on her neck. “More?” he says; his voice is a low rumble against the soft, open column of her throat.

 

She whines and tightens her arms around his head, pulling his face against her. He digs his fingers into her waist, pushes her back. “Say where,” he hisses into the hollow of her throat. 

 

“Oh - everywhere,” she whimpers at him, sliding her arms free of him and wiggling backwards, beginning to tug feverishly at her own clothes. “Everywhere,” she whines again, pushing her face close to his and kissing him, artless and hungry, “everywhere.”

 

“Yes,” he breathes against her, “yes.” Then he does something clever, somehow, that involves clasping her tightly to him with one arm and half-standing, pivoting on one foot, and somehow moving the chair along with both their bodies — then he pushes her back and she feels the edge of the table digging into her back, feels herself bending backwards against it. “Off,” he says, gesturing with his chin at her chest.

 

No mystery what he means. She scrabbles at her top, prying fastenings opening and wriggling her shoulders until she wriggles free of everything and her top, undershirt, bra, are all bunched around her waist. And then, for a moment, she stops, hands hovering in the air, watching him. His own hands are tight on her waist. She can feel him breathing almost as hard as she is. She can feel his erection, his cock a solid bulge pressing between her legs, and she thinks maybe he should strip down too —

 

Then he lifts a hand to her chest, cups one of her breasts, lifts it just a little, and lowers his mouth. He presses his lips to her nipple, a soft kiss that makes her body thrill all over with a single electric current, and makes her cunt ache with the same, sudden current. Then, motions of his mouth still as soft as the skin he is touching, he parts his lips, and presses his tongue against her.

 

She says, “ _ oh,”  _ and she puts her hands gently on his head, is if he were a fragile thing, and curls her spine foreword until her face is almost pressed to his hair, and whimpers “ _ oh, oh, oh,”  _ and ceases to think at all.

 

He moves his tongue lightly over the hardening bud of her nipple, and then he bites, very softly, with his teeth, and pulls — only a little, and carefully, but enough to draw a keening out of Arihnda that sounds, even to her own ears, like a promise of complete surrender. Still holding her nipple between his teeth, he slides his hand from her breast back to her waist, and wraps both his arms around her. Then he moves his mouth against her breast: lets her nipple go from between his teeth and closes his lips around the little nub instead, and sucks. She slides her arms around his head and presses his face tighter into her chest and moans, almost pitifully, a sound that is both plea and offering. 

 

After a moment, slow and quiet, where they stay wrapped up in one another just so, his mouth moving gently against her and her whimpering softly, he pulls his head back, leaves one last, quick kiss on the wet point of her nipple, and moves his attention to her other breast. She whines into the top of his head and curls her fingers softly in his hair, feels him groan against her breast - half sound, half sensation - and she moans back, encouragement and sympathy, almost a conversation:  _ Do I make you feel good? You make me feel good, too. _

 

He moves against her, presses his mouth between her breasts, and then higher, up her chest, up her neck, back to her mouth. She leaves her arms wrapped loosely around his head and neck. He slides one arm under her, holds her middle tight with the other, and lifts her suddenly onto the table, and pulls away. She blinks at him, surprised, hands resting on his shoulders.

 

“Off,” he says, softly. “Everything off.”

 

She pushes herself back on the table, trying to push her clothes down over her hips as she does. He takes one of her legs, bends it, tugs her boot off, and the does the same to the other. 

 

“Hips,” he says, “up.”

 

She braces on her shoulders and her heels, just barely on the edge of the table, and lifts her hips, and her peels her clothing down over her thighs in one tangled roll, pulls the bunched up mass down her legs, and tosses them carelessly away behind him. “Open for me,” he says. 

 

She lets her knees butterfly apart and for a moment he stands above her, looking, and frowning, and reaches out with one hand. “Interesting,” he says slowly, running a finger over the protrusion of her pubic bone.

 

“What?” she asks, looking down. “Oh — the hair’s coming back. We can stop —”

 

“No,” he says, “it is fine.”

 

“I —” she starts to say, but he sits back in the chair, and slips his arms under her legs and pulls her towards him. She says “Oh, God,” very sharply, and lets her head fall back against the table. Her lower legs are hooked loosely over his shoulders. His hands are wrapped around the place where her thighs meet her hips. He buries his face into her without further preamble and she closes her eyes.

 

His tongue feels just as good against her as it did the first time, and she reaches down between her legs and runs her fingers through his hair almost instantly. “Oh, slower,” she moans after a minute. “Slower, please.”

 

He stops everything for a moment, then starts again with one long, flat stroke of his tongue. She gasps, and he does it again, and then dives his tongue into the slick center of her, and she whines. Then he puts his tongue on her clit again, a flickering touch this time, and she moans, and moans again louder, a high-pitched, trembling sound, and then she whimpers “ _ slower _ ” again.

 

He presses his tongue firmly to her clit for a moment, then presses his mouth against her like a kiss, then puckers his lips and sucks slowly on her clit and the skin around it — then starts over. Slow, and deliberate, and good. And she lets herself assign a term to the way it makes her feel, to have his lips and his tongue moving gently between her legs. She admits to herself that it makes her feel  _ cared for _ , at least a little, which she has not really felt since leaving Lothal — except, perhaps, sometimes with Juahir. And none of it, before Lothal or after, was ever quite like this. She feels the realization edging in, feels the tender thing rising in her, and the swell beneath it, feels her eyes, even closed, prickling with heat again, and shuts it all out, and runs her hands through his hair almost desperately, and tries to stop thinking again.

 

He makes it easy.

 

He uses mostly his lips for a while, pressing and sucking, sometimes stoking her with the flat of his tongue,  and she runs her hands through his hair and moans, and moans, and moans, until he presses an actual kiss, gentle, against her open cunt, and she whimpers  _ “oh, fuck me _ .”

 

He kisses the center of her again. “Look at me,” he says, standing. She blinks slowly, focusing on him. He reaches out, frowning, and touches her cheekbone again. She isn't crying, hasn't cried, but her eyelashes are still damp.

 

“It's nothing,” she says quickly, “it’s just — just stress.”

 

“A very difficult week, then,” he says, evenly.

 

“Yes. But this — this helps.” Her voice is a little high, and a little rough. “You help.”

 

“Do I?”

 

“Yes. It would helped if you fucked me.”

 

“Indeed.” He looks at her, appraisingly, parsing her state for himself for a moment longer. Deciding. His hand is still on her face. Then he moves his hand to her belly, rests it there easily, tilts his head, raises an eyebrow. “Uniform on, perhaps?”

 

“Oh —” she blinks again, then says, breathy, with a giddy thrill: “Yes. Please.”

 

The corner of his mouth curls, almost softly. “Yes,” he repeats, as if to say:  _ I thought you’d like that.  _ He pulls up the bottom on his tunic, does something she can’t see but can easily tell the purpose of, and then says: “Legs open. Wide.”

 

She pulls her knees to her chest, wraps her hands around them, and pulls them out to her sides. He leans forward, one hand on the table beside her, and rubs his cock against her clit for a moment. She moans, and lets her head loll back and her eyes close.

 

“Look at me,” he says.

 

She opens her eyes, and tightens her grip on her knees, as if that will somehow help her focus. He slides into her slowly and she almost closes her eyes again.

 

“Look at me,” he repeats.

 

He moves his cock in and out of her once, slow, a deep movement. He has a look of concentration, like he’s focused on doing something well. Like he's focused on her. She makes a little noise, guttural and helpless.

 

“Good?”

 

She whimpers.

 

“Tell me,” he mutters.

 

“Oh — yes, good —”

 

He moves again, and again, slow, a stroke that moves up when he pushes into her and down when he pulls the other way. “Oh, you feel good,” she groans. Her breathing is half whine, and she whimpers each time his cock his bottoms out inside her, something he is still leaning over the table to accomplish.

 

Then he grips her hips with both hands, and pulls her closer to the edge of the table. She yelps a little in surprise, and he stops, gives her a questioning look — she shakes her head, says  _ “I’m alright” —  _ and he moves his hands again, places one over her hand where it’s wrapped around her knee and grasps her tight, and moves the other beneath the flap of his tunic where it’s laying on her belly, so his thumb is on her clit, and starts to fuck her faster. 

 

He uses short, hard, fast strokes, and she makes wordless sound at him when he does, some of which must sound like pain, because he stops, and asks if she is hurting, and she says: “No — more.”

 

He raises an eyebrow. “More?”

 

“Yes,” she says. 

  
  


He starts to fuck her again, face strange with concentration, circling his thumb against her clit, and she whines again.

 

“More?” he asks again, breathing hard.

 

“Yes,” she whines at him.

 

“Tell me,” he hisses tightly.

 

“More,” she says, trying to keep her eyes open, and trying to remember how to say just this one word, to make it the only sound that comes out of her mouth. She yanks her hand out from beneath his where he’s pressing on her knee, and presses it into his chest, into the faintly itchy gaberwool of the uniform, and curls her fingers there, as if for support, though which one of them the support is for isn't really clear. He presses harder on her folded leg and with her own arm she pulls the other one as far up and to the side as she can, opening herself wide for him. “More.” She gasps. “More. More, more, more, more-more-more-moremoremore —”

 

He is thrusting himself in and out of her as fast as anyone ever has, each stroke bottoming out inside her hard, almost painfully so, and he is holding her in place mostly with the tremendous pressure of his hand against her knee, her leg bent double and almost flat against the table by her side — but his thumb is circling against her clit so ferociously she feels like an electric cable is jacked into her nerves, and she can hardly tell what’s happening, between her legs or anywhere else, only that suddenly her legs are trembling, her feet twitching and shivering absurdly, the muscles of her back and neck and arms are frozen tightly, tension straining her against her bones, there seems to be an overload of everything, and she opens her mouth wide and closes her eyes and her desperate chant of  _ more  _ becomes a wordless, high-pitched scream, that goes on, and on, and on, climbing in intensity the harder his thumb rubs against her and the faster and harder his cock slams inside of her, until she thinks she can’t possibly stand another second —

 

And then he stops, all at once, hips pinioned against her, cock buried in her, and she feels, barely, the throb of it inside her: the living mechanical pump of his body, that moves like an independent thing. She says “oh” with dumb surprise. His shoulders are slumped suddenly, weight of his upper body heavy on her arm where it’s outstretched and pressed into his chest. His breathing is hard, and ragged. So is hers.

 

After a moment, he stands, and pulls out of her, and says, almost subtly apologetic: “Somewhat faster than I intended.”

 

“It’s alright,” she says, uncurling her fingers from the front of his uniform as he stands, and letting her hand fall to the table beside her head. Then, a little uncertain, muting her desire beneath a little politeness in case he says no, she says: “Do you think we could do that again? Once more before you leave, I mean?”

 

He blinks at her once, tilts his head, and then smiles with strange delight and self-satisfaction. It is a very, very attractive smile. “I believe we can,” he says.

 

“Oh, good,” she says, starting to unfold her legs. The one he'd leaned on aches horribly. She hardly notices; she is a little giddy with relief. “How long do you need?”

 

He snorts at that, amusement at her expense, and says dryly: “Do you have a schedule to keep?”

 

“Oh,” she says, groaning in sharp discomfort as she tries to sit up, “you’re not very nice.”

 

He reaches for her, helps her sit upright, keeps his hands hovering by her shoulders until he sees that she is sitting fine on her own. “I disagree,” he says. “I am think I am quite appropriately generous.” He begins to take his tunic off. Sitting, she can see that his jodhpurs and his undergarments are around his knees, caught on his boots. “I trust you will not want to stay on the table for a second round?” he asks mildly, putting his tunic on the chair behind him and bending slightly to begin undoing his boots. 

 

“No,” she says, watching him. “Did that come through alright? The uniform? I know you —”

 

“I believe it will be sufficiently clean for the hour at which I return,” he says mildly. “And,” he adds, looking up at her slyly, “I thought you would appreciate it.”

 

“I… I did, yes,” she says.

 

“Yes,” he says. The sly look fades from his face, and something more sincere takes his place. “I suspect there is something about authority — or rather, commanding it — that makes you feel… secure,” he says, half thoughtful.

 

She bites her lip. “There might be,” she says finally.

 

“But we do not need to discuss it at the moment,” he says, pulling off his boots, socks, pants. “Or ever, if you prefer.” Then he stands, strips off his undershirt and tosses it aside, and holds out his hands to her. “Come here.”

 

Standing up and walking is a little trickier than she expects, and his hands on her body help more than she would like to admit. The leg he’d held while he’d fucked her folds at the hip in protest when she puts her weight on it, and she limps a little for the first couple steps. He stops her and, frowning, asks if she is alright, and if she is  _ sure  _ she is alright, and if she needs to rest — no, she tells him, she would like to go to the bed, thank you.

 

He looks at her for a moment longer, then bends very suddenly and loops his arms around her legs and lifts her straight into the air like a pole. She gives a cry of surprise and clutches his shoulders for support, then pushes herself back to look down at his face.

 

“The bed, then?” he says, face mock-serious. Or maybe actually serious. It is still hard for her to tell.

 

“Yes,” she says.

 

This isn't any more comfortable than the other way of being carried, and in truth it hurts her hip worse than walking, but she likes very much that he’s doing it. She leans over him a little as her walks, one arm looped around his shoulders, her free hand brushing through his hair.

 

“Wait,” she says, curling low over him as they near the door, “careful. My head.”

 

“Of course,” he says, setting her down just outside door, putting his hands on her shoulders as he stands.

 

“And the sheets,” she says suddenly, earnestly, a non-sequitur in almost every way, staring up at him.

 

His face is blank for a moment, then his lips twitch, and then he laughs. It's brief, and soft, and low in his throat, but still clearly a laugh at her expense. She wrinkles her features and opens her mouth to protest, but he moves a hand from her shoulder to her head and pulls her towards him and kisses her, still smiling ironically, before she can speak. “Of course,” he says gently. “How could I forget?”

 

She watches from the door while he pulls covers down. “To your liking?” he asks dryly when he's done.

 

“Yes,” she says. And then, after a moment’s private hesitation, she holds her arms out to him.

 

He raises his eyebrows and tilts his head, both conveying faint surprise, then rounds the bed and comes to her, and, without needing to be told, slips his arms around her legs and waist and lifts her. She slides her arms around him in return, as best she can, and holds on as he turns and carries her the few steps to the bed.

 

“Good?” he asks, laying her on the bed. Her legs are hanging off the edge of it, and he is kneeling, his waist between her knees.

 

“Mm,” she says, moving her fingers absently in his hair.

 

“To your liking?” he says, with somewhat more amusement in his tone.

 

“Yes,” she says vaguely, with perfect sincerity, resting her hand on his cheek, “very much.”

 

He stills for a moment, looks at her closely. “Yes,” he repeats slowly. He touches her face.

 

And suddenly the moment feels very still indeed. Her breathing is shallow, and soft. The tender thing is beginning to unfurl in her chest again, and — “Can we fuck again now?” she asks, voice very high and quick.

 

He raises his eyebrows, purses his lips in a way that might almost be humorous, and glances down the length of their bodies, an act that seems to be mostly for show. “I will need a little longer,” he says, sly amusement moving through his words like a darting animal in tall grass.

 

“Oh,” she says, feeling slightly silly — and also slightly anxious. A little part of her worries that perhaps this is a sign of disinterest in her, that he will have to work to manufacture enough desire —

 

“But there other things we might do in the meantime,” he adds, still slyly amused, “if you would like.” 

 

“Oh, yes,” she says, over-eager, “please” — and he has a look on his face she is coming to know, like he is trying not to laugh — 

 

And then he does laugh, a short sound, half-breath, somehow both sardonic and warm.

 

“Be nice to me,” she whines at him, wriggling beneath him and trying to sit up.

 

“Of course,” he says, speaking from low in his throat, and he leans forward, pushing himself over the edge of the bed, and kisses her. She stops trying to sit up. “Better?” he asks dryly, after.

 

“Mm,” she says, “yes.”

 

He lowers his mouth to her neck, kisses her there. “And this?”

 

“Yes,” she says, her hands beginning to wander a little on his shoulders.

 

He kisses her collarbone. “This?”

 

“Yes,” she sighs.

 

The swell of her breast. “This?”

 

“Yes,” she whimpers.

 

“Good,” he murmurs, face against her breast. Another kiss. Then he pushes himself up. “Move back for me.”

 

She scoots towards the middle of the bed, crawling awkwardly backwards on her hands and heels, a way of moving she's hardly used since childhood.

 

He crawls after her, somehow looking at least a little bit, thrillingly, predatory.

 

“Far enough,” he says, when they're about in the middle of the bed. “Lie back for me.”

 

Easy enough to do.

 

And what he does next is easy enough to accept, to: kisses her breasts again, and her stomach, and moves his mouth down her body, lower, and lower, until his mouth is centered between her hips. Then he sits up and, stroking her leg, says: “Open for me.”

 

“Oh —” she sits up halfway, propped on her elbows — “are you sure? I mean, you want to do that after —”

 

“You would prefer I did not?”

 

“Well I don't know about prefer, but —” her mouth twists oddly. The whole idea seems a little unsavory, and makes her feel a little weird. “I’d like you to be comfortable too,” she says. It's only half a ploy, to cover her own uncertainty.

 

He raises an eyebrow. His mouth is curved with dry amusement. “I admit it is not generally my preference, but I will be fine. Lie back for me. Open your legs.”

 

She takes a breath, and lowers herself back onto the mattress, blinking slowly at the ceiling. She can feel him moving, lowering himself between her legs, lifting her ankles over his shoulders, wrapping his arms around her hips and curving his fingers over her thighs, pulling her open —

 

Having his mouth on her feels different, after having been fucked. It is almost as if she herself can feel how much softer and wetter than normal she is. But the weird feeling of being more aware of herself because she feels his mouth against her only lasts a few moments, and then she is too busy simply feeling his mouth to analyze anything.

 

He starts slow, mostly lips, and broad pressure with the flat of his tongue. She makes low, melodic moans that start deep inside her and reverberate in her throat, and puts her hands on his head, almost holding him, and moves her thumbs in slow arcs along the strange ridges of his forehead. He stays slow-paced: as quick a study as he patient. He doesn't only tease at her clit, either. He moves his head side to side a little, and runs his tongue along her labia, and pulls at them gently with his teeth. She makes a little noise of protest and he raises his head.

 

“No teeth?” he asks.

 

She looks down at him. It's a very odd view. She swallows, shakes her head. 

 

“No teeth,” he repeats with gentle surety, and drops his gaze, and then his face, back between her legs.

 

She lets her own head fall back on the mattress, and lets herself sink into the feeling of him, and then float on it. She moans again, and sighs, and whimpers when he rubs the tip of his tongue against her clit —

 

He lifts his head. She feels it happen, and looks down at him, and finds him staring up at her with weird intensity. “Would you like to cum again?” His voice is low, and she can almost feel it in her flesh.

 

She isn't sure, for a moment, of the answer. Certainly she doesn't want him to stop, but she’s sure she’ll have a limit, eventually, and she isn't sure how fast she wants to find it.

 

But she does, in some hungry, just-waking part of herself, want more. And more. And more.

 

Slowly, only a little hesitant, she nods.

 

And she isn't sure what response she expects, but the slow, satisfied, wolfish grin that oozes over his face isn't it. 

 

“Good,” he says, and he tightens his grip on her thighs and prys them as far apart as they will go and pushes his face into her again.

 

He doesn’t go slowly at all, this time. His tongue flickers against her clit and makes her gasp, and clutch at his hair, and she can’t seem to decide if she’s trying to push his mouth deeper into her or pull his head away. He digs his hands into her legs and pins her in place and — works, is the word she thinks of, works with his mouth. His eyes are closed, she thinks, she can’t really tell. In any case he’s very involved, down there, and she feels — 

 

Where his mouth is moving against her, and where the actions of his mouth spark feeling deep inside her, she feels the high-key thrill of building pleasure, interrupted sporadically with sharp, electric bursts that flare when he licks her clit, making her squeal. Her breathing comes in short little whining gasps, and her legs draw up and her feet curl against the base of his skull. 

 

He moves himself and moves her body with him: pulling on her hips as he pushes his face forward so she is spread open as far as she can be and he is eating down into her. She twists her hands tighter in his hair, and her head falls back, and she begins to moan “ _ oh, crink, crink, crink,”  _ a guttural, gasping chant that catches in the back of her throat on each word.

 

His tongue moves faster, and she bucks her hips, involuntary, and he adjusts his hands and pushes her down into the mattress so much harder. She flexes her hands against his head, and whines, and then moans, and his tongue is moving, moving, moving  —

 

She screams, and draws up around him, shaking, and then falls back, back stiff. The electric wire feeling is back, the glittering spark of his tongue on her clit, relentless, firing her nerves, and deep inside herself her muscles are contracting in strange rhythms, and freezing, and pushing, and drawing inward in waves again. He holds her harder, and she bucks against his mouth, hips twitching weirdly. She wails: a long, groaning sound, and pulls against his hair so hard she might be trying to rip his scalp off. Her feet are pressed hard against his head. Her legs are shaking. “Oh, God,” she cries. “Oh, God. Oh, please. Oh, God.” And then, pitifully: “Please stop.”

 

And then he stops. Pulls his mouth away from her, and turns his body sideways, and they roll together. Her hands are still in his hair, but not clutching so hard. She curls over, looks down between her legs. He is looking up at her, head pillowed on her thigh, arms wrapped up around her hips, panting. She is panting, too. “Oh, God,” she whimpers again.

 

He pushes himself up between her legs, slithering through them like a serpent, shrugging her legs off his shoulders and pushing her gently on to her back and crawling on his elbows until he can touch her face without reaching. He is leaning over her, propped up on one arm. “Good?” he asks in a whisper, one hand on her cheek.

 

“God,” she says, a thick, guttural sound, “yes.”

 

He looks at her only half a moment longer, and she stares back, slack-jawed and brainless, and then he kisses her. She can taste herself, a flavor she already knows she likes and that now she thinks she he must enjoy as well, and she can taste him, too — the mineral taste she likes. The kiss is gentle, and it stays that way the whole time it goes on, which is long enough for her to decide she needs something to do with her hands. She puts them, a little limply, on his upper arms.

 

And then he does something else she doesn't expect.

 

He breaks his mouth away from hers, and moves his head, and kisses her just between her brows.

 

Her hands flex involuntarily against his arms, and she says “oh,” again, again in dumb surprise, but in a high, sweet voice that conveys, because she has had no time to try to hide it, the lightning thrill that’s passed like a burst of sunlight through her nerves — the rapid expansion of the tender thing in her chest, like a bloom unfurling all at once, from such a little thing. She shuts her eyes.

 

“Not pleasant?” he asks after a slight pause. She can only imagine the way he is looking at her, examining, assessing. 

 

She moves her hands a little against his arms, tries to control her voice, tries to suppress the queer note that comes from the upwelling feeling that follows, always, on the heels of the tender thing. She succeeds. Almost. “No,” she whispers. “Very pleasant.”

 

“I see,” he says softly after a moment of consideration. She feels his hand move against her face again, lets him turn her face a little to the side. Then he kisses her again: a soft brush of his lips against her cheek. She gasps again, and whimpers. “Very pleasant,” he murmurs softly again, like he is testing the idea for a flaw.

 

“Yes,” she whispers back. He kisses her cheekbone. She whimpers again, and digs her fingers into his arms. He kisses her temple. “Yes,” she whines again. 

 

For a long moment after that, there is silence. His thumb brushes gently against her cheek, back and forth. Back and forth. Slow, and soft.

 

Slowly, she opens her eyes. He is watching her. Somewhat curious, maybe. Mostly observant.

 

She feels a surge of — she finds herself blinking rapidly, throat tight, lungs straining.

 

“It is alright,” he says softly, thumb still moving across her cheek. “I do not mind.”

 

And that, the feeling that she doesn’t need to fight whatever it is that is forcing its way up from deep inside her, is like a release valve for all the stresses of the fight itself. She deflates, breathes out once, forcefully, between pursed lips, blinks slower, feels the sudden threat of tears abate, although she still feels — no way around it but through — bruised inside, and worn out. She takes another deep breath.

 

“It is alright,” he offers again, gently.

 

“Is it?”

 

“Yes.” He brushes his hand through her hair. “Your recent experience has been somewhat more than difficult, I think.” His hand moves through her hair again. “This is not so different from flushing a wound, perhaps.”

 

Her mouth twists unhappily. “Not very attractive,” she says sullenly.

 

Something like a smile hovers around his mouth. “Perhaps not. But that is not really the point. Consider, if you would, that I may understand the experience a little.”

 

“Do you?” she asks, frowning. And then, eyes going wide, she realizes how stupid a question it is. “Oh,” she says.  _ Exile.  _ “Oh, God, I’m sorry —”

 

“It is alright,” he says again, a little wry and a little wan. “I have had considerably more time to think about my present circumstances than have you, I believe.”

 

“Oh,” she says. “Right.” He is, it seems, just looking at her. Just looking, with no expectation, no rush to it. Patient. She doesn’t have anything add, really, to the conversation, such as it. Instead she says: “Can you kiss me again?”

 

He doesn’t speak, but lowers his head — 

 

She jerks her head to the side. “No, I meant —” He gives her a long look. She licks her lips, tries again. Strange, how hard it is to say. How foolish asking makes her feel. And how terribly, achingly she wants it. “I meant my face,” she says, voice straining.

 

He waits another moment, moves his hand against her. Cradles the back of her head. “Certainly,” he says softly.

 

And he does.

 

Cheeks. Cheekbones. Slow. Patient. She moves her hands from his arms, runs her fingers through his hair again. She wonders idly if he enjoys it as much as she enjoys doing it. Certainly he doesn’t complain. He kisses her temples, her brow. Her breath catches in her throat. He kisses the line of her jaw. He kisses the corners of her mouth. Even, strangely, and more enjoyable than she would have guessed, her chin.

 

He presses his face into her neck, briefly, and she curls her arms around him, and sighs into his temple. “Do you think you could you fuck me again, now?” she asks. She asks it almost idly.

 

He lifts his head. Moves his hands in her hair. She keeps her eyes closed. “Yes,” she hears him say. He kisses her mouth, and she moans against him, half a whine. He whispers against her mouth: “How would you like it?”

 

“Mm,” she opens her eyes, blinks a few times. She would like to be touched by him. Would like to feel him moving against her and inside her. Especially inside her. But she would like, more than that, to turn off her mind for a while. To feel only her body, and nothing else. “From behind, please.”

 

His hand moves against her face again. He kisses the side of her mouth. He pushes himself up, sits back on his heels. “Turn over for me.” A little bit of scrambling, arranging. She starts to bend her knees under herself, raise her hips. “No.” Gentle hands, gentle pressure. “No, lay down.” 

 

A moment of stillness. Her face pressed sideways into the mattress. Her legs straight out behind her. Her arms bent at her sides. A hand, gliding from her neck to the small of her back; the feeling of it makes her moan softly. The same motion; this time she sighs. The same motion, his hand traveling a little further, over the curve of her ass, down her thigh. She moans again. The same motion, from neck to knee. She sighs again. It feels good, all of it: an invitation not to think. To live in her body, and not in her mind, for a little while.

 

A shift of weight on the mattress next to her. Her head is turned the other way, eyes still closed. She stays that way. A hand, on her hand. A hand, sliding firmly against her hand, fingers pressing between her fingers — She splays her fingers against the mattress, closes them a moment later, curling them tightly around his.

 

A mouth on her shoulder. She whines. His free hand, running down her back again, curving over her ass, sliding between her legs. She whimpers, turns her thighs out as far as she can. Mouth, on her back. Hand, against her hand. Fingers, inside her. Moving inside her. Making her breathing change: moaning to whining, whining to gasping, gasping to panting. Her cunt reacts, too: hot, slick, grasping. She turns her thighs out more, raises her hips a little, whines. His fingers move slower. She feels his mouth near her ear. “Tell me what you want.”

 

She wiggles her hips, moans.

 

“Tell me,” he whispers. “What do you want?”

 

She moans again, tightens her hand against his. “You,” she whines, “you.” She tightens her hand further still. “I want you.”

 

His face pressed into the back of her neck. A moment of heavy breath. Their hands gripped together so tightly it hurts. “Yes,” he groans against her skin. “Yes.”

 

He loosens his fingers between hers, shakes her off, moves beside her, behind her. Touches her back with both hands. Kisses between her shoulder blades, making her whimper. He runs his hands down her back, squeezes her ass, making her groan. He shifts his weight: moves his hips forward and back. She feels his cock rubbing against her. She raises her hips a little. He takes one hand off her ass, repositions himself, rubs his cock against the opening of her cunt. She whines, grips the sheets. Another moment moving his hips. She whines again, hungry, and lifts her ass as far as she can without pulling her knees up under herself. His legs are outside her legs, his thighs pressing against her hips.

 

A pause. Then he pushes forward, pushes his cock inside her: slow, deep, almost painful, after having been fucked once already. After having been fucked, over a period of days, more, and more often, than ever before in her life. _No, not painful,_ she decides, turning her face into the mattress, curling her hands into the sheets, groaning. Not painful. _Intense._ _Good._

 

He moves again, sliding slowly in and out of her — and word games with herself aside, she gives a little yelping whine of pain when he thrusts forward. 

 

He stops, touches the back of her head gently. “What?”

 

“Mm,” she says, frustrated with herself, “too deep.”

 

“Too deep,” he repeats. He puts his weight back on both hands, moves his whole body: slides his legs down along hers, raises his hips against her ass, and thrusts again, slow and deliberate, almost more a rocking motion than anything else. He doesn’t enter her fully like this, but it’s more than enough for her to feel what she wants: the solid mass of him, the feeling of him moving against the entrance of her, and just far enough inside her to feel full. 

 

Her mouth opens in a soft  _ O,  _ and she groans, and turns her head to the side again. He moves again, the same slow, deliberate, rocking thrust, and she moans again: half breath, half whimper. She turns her feet at the ankles, hooks her toes over his calves. He lowers his head and kisses her back, which makes her whine again, soft and full of a sweet kind of anguish she doesn’t entire dislike. 

 

He presses his face into her shoulder, kisses her again, and moves again, and moves again, slow, still slow. His mouth moves too, soft and gentle against her back and shoulders. She whimpers every time. He mutters something against her back, then moves his head, presses his face into the back of her neck, makes a guttural sound, says, with great effort, “ _ tell me.” _

 

His cock is still moving inside her, hips rocking against her: slow, deliberate. She groans into the mattress, slides one of her arms back and wraps her hand awkwardly around his wrist.

 

“Tell me,” he hisses again.

 

“You,” she whines at him. “I want you.”

 

He says something then, she doesn’t understand, at once guttural and full of heavy breath, and moves his hand: twists out of her grasp, catches her hand again, slides his fingers through hers, squeezes tight. He turns her arm, bends it at the elbow and slides their arms together under her chest, the weight of his body resting mostly on his elbow. Then, only a little awkwardly, he does the same thing with her other arm. He presses his face into the side of her face, breathing hard, and starts to thrust into her again. Her arms are pinioned across her chest, binding her. She makes a low moaning, whimpering noise and he shifts his face against hers, kisses her temple, moves faster, kisses the curve of her jaw below her ear, presses his forehead against her, mutters softly — talking to her, she understands, somehow, though she can’t understand the words. She curls her fingers tight around his, and moves her head a little, as if she could nuzzle his face in return, and talks to him in wordless sounds, and, when she can think clearly enough to form a word, whimpers “ _ you, oh, please, you —” _

 

He moves faster, deeper, but warmed by the start, or just building on a new crest of pleasure, she feels a thrill instead of pain. Her hands flex against his, and she cries out. He thrusts again, presses his mouth to her neck when he does, and somehow the spark of his mouth even more than the friction of his cock, or maybe both together, sends a wave of pleasure through her. Her legs contract at the knees, feet rising, trembling, into the air. She clutches against his hands, and wails.  

 

He makes a low groaning sound, turns his face into the back of her neck, presses his forehead there, and moves in her faster — faster — faster — for a few moments, there is only the sound of their bodies, of her crying out for him and of him moaning, she assumes, for her — and then he thrusts once, and stays, one primal cry in his throat, and she feels him inside her — 

 

And he makes one shorter noise, lifts his body, pulls out of her, moves his head against her, kisses the back of her neck briefly, and then lays his whole weight against her for a moment, and pulls them both over to the side.

 

And he stays that way. Holds them, together: his arms around her body, his face against the back of her head, his torso curved against her, one of his legs, heavy, slung over her hip. There is some mess beneath them and between them but he doesn’t seem bothered. And, as his breathing starts to even out, and hers does as well, it occurs to her that he intends to stay here, clamped around her. Which is different, and strange, and —

 

“What are you doing?” she asks after a moment, her body suddenly awkwardly stiff.

 

She can feel him raise his head to look at the side of her face. “You have had enough of being held?” There is a little humor in it, but it is a real question, too.

 

She turns her head to peer at him, trying to navigate her answer. “I'm just not used to it, I guess.”

 

He looks at her, considering. Then he says: “It is not so terrible, to be close.”

 

“No,” she breathes, frowning and trying to settle against him comfortably. “I suppose it isn’t.” And truly it isn't. It doesn't take so long for her to begin to relax a little. Mostly it is that her muscles don't have the energy left to stay tense, although being held by him is less pleasant than holding him. But perhaps this is his preference. Although he hadn’t done it before, which nags at her, and she asks: “You didn’t — you didn’t do this before because —”

 

“I did not think it to your liking.”

 

“Oh.” She lies still for another few minutes, then wiggles against him. “Actually — not that I don’t appreciate the thought, but… this isn’t very comfortable. Can we try something else?”

 

A noncommittal sound, he loosens his arms. The rearrange themselves. They end with him lying on his back, Arihnda curved against his side, her head on his chest. It puts a bit of a bend in her neck, but it’s not uncomfortable. He has one arm around her shoulders. His other arm is bent across his chest; their hands are stitched together. They lie like this, too, for a few minutes, before Arihnda, who finds the entire scenario a little too new to be trusted, and who feels a strange anxiety about it, says: “I’m still planning on everything else, you know. Ghadi, Lothal, Tarkin — I haven’t changed my mind about it.”

 

There’s a short pause, and then he snorts. And then, tightening his hand around hers, and his arm around her shoulder, he laughs.

 

Real laughter. Clear, and open-mouthed, and alive in his body. 

 

She pushes herself up onto her elbow and stares at him.

 

After a moment, he looks at her, short, breathy sounds still coming from his wryly smiling face like aftershocks, and shakes his hand loose from hers, and reaches for her face. He brushes her hair back behind her ear, and cups her face, and rubs her cheek with his thumb. “I would hardly have expected you to,” he says, his tone shot through with warm amusement.

 

She stares a minute longer, open-mouthed. “Oh,” she says. “So you’re still — interested?”

 

His face softens, briefly, then hardens into a strange sort of determination. He pulls her towards him. She moves part way towards him — but only part way. “Yes,” he says plainly. “I am.” He tugs at her face again, and she doesn’t move. He stops tugging, tilts his head, and, leaving his hand on her face, rolls towards her, pulls his elbow under him, and levers himself up so their faces are close together. He looks at her for another moment longer, face sober. “I am not Moff Ghadi,” he says, voice even and low. “I am not  _ done  _ with you.”

 

Her breath catches. Her face burns, suddenly — and so do her eyes. And then, without taking a new breath, she leans forward, into his mouth.

 

It does not start as a gentle kiss, but it ends that way: with careful nips at her upper lip, and soft, ancillary touches of his mouth scattered across her face. She lets him fold her against his chest when they are finished, and finds herself sighing with something that a happier person might recognize as contentment.

 

“Lucky for you I wished to offer my assistance when you requested my advice,” he says absently after a few minutes, his hand wandering up and down her side. There is a touch of humor in his tone, but only a touch.

 

“Mm,” she says, feeling almost amused herself, but only almost, “lucky for you I asked for you.”

 

His hand stills against her, and then tightens. “Yes,” he says slowly, “I think perhaps it was.” A moment of silence, then his hand begins to move again. “Will you tell me about Lothal?”

 

She shifts against him, pressing closer. “What do you want to know?”

 

“Your perceptions, primarily. Your memories. You were raised there. How did you perceive it in your youth?”

 

To Arihnda it feels like a very long story. “When I was little — Do you have time for this now?”

 

“I have time for some of it.”

 

Arihnda breathes in silence for a minute. Breathes in the smell of him. Feels him breathing, chest rising and falling beneath the weight of her head. Finally she says: “I was very happy there, as a child.”

 

“And then you became less happy.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“When you were young, what did you enjoy about your home?”

 

Another minute of silence. His hand stroking metonymically along her skin. His body, solid against hers, warm and stable. She curls against him, strangely discomfited. She struggles with the answer. It wiggles in her throat like a trapped bird, but she’s loathe to let it free. Finally, with great reluctance, throat tightening, she says: “I had a lot of friends.” Her eyes feel hot again as soon as she says it.

 

His hand stops moving. “Ah,” he says. He draws his arm up around her shoulder, brushes his thumb along her skin. “I do not mean to dredge up painful reminiscences. It is only…”

 

“You might as well tell me,” she sighs.

 

“I was thinking of your new strategy — your visit to Daisie. Your plan to return home.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“In my experience, sentient beings of all species…”

 

“If you’re going to insult me you may as well do it quickly so we can both move on,” she mutters.

 

“It is not meant to be hurtful. I only expect your plans will work better if there somewhat more sincerity to them. If your desire to re-acquaint yourself with your home comes from… a place of goodwill. I do not mean —”

 

“No, I understand. You hoped to find some happy memory of mine, to send me home with a smile on my face. Something that would get me a better reception, and maybe make me, in turn, more prone to do things your way. To remind me that I, too, am from Lothal. That I owe something to my home. That seems like the sort of thing you’d say.”

 

He waits a moment before answering, but in the end all he says is: “Yes.”

 

“I expect you and Bail will agree on a great deal,” she says, sighing, and pushing herself up.

 

“Indeed.” He lets his hand fall from her shoulder, and remains on his back, watching her.

 

“Do you have to leave soon?” she asks.

 

“Would you prefer if I did?”

 

“No,” she says, rubbing a hand over her face. “I’d prefer if you stayed.” Her voice still has the tone of a sigh. “But I don’t want to get into a longer conversation than we have time for.”

 

Another moment of silence, then: “That is reasonable, of course.” Another moment, then: “Do you think it is a conversation that would be useful for us to have before visiting with your friend Senator Organa?”

 

“I do, but — why do you do that?”

 

“Do what?”

 

“Call him my friend, as if you’re telling a joke.”

 

A much longer silence, somewhat uncomfortable. “The truth?” he asks.

 

“Please,” she says.

 

“I found it amusing that you had managed to capture the affection of someone so much higher-ranking than yourself, and put those affections to work on your behalf. It is a charming talent. I was also amused that someone as… proficient in social engineering… as yourself… would be so genuinely concerned for his opinion, and defensive of his honor. I was entertained.”

 

“I see.”

 

“It was not meant to be unkind.”

 

“Nevertheless,” she says as a complete statement.

 

“If it is any consolation, it seems to me that you are, actually, friends, after a fashion. And it is my genuine hope that he is a more worthy friend than Mister MarDapp or Miss Madras.”

 

“How kind-hearted of you,” she says sourly. Then she sighs again, and drags her hand through her hair. “It’s fine. You’re not — you’re not wrong. And yes, I understand what you want to talk about, and yes it would be useful to talk about it before you meet Bail. But he’s asked to push the meeting back a week, so I think we have a little time.”

 

“I see.”

 

She curls her knees to her chest, and hugs them. “And I’d rather not talk about it now, if that’s alright.”

 

Another considering moment, and then he says: “Yes, it is alright. Is there anything else you would like to discuss while I am here?”

 

She looks over at him, tilting her head like a bird. He doesn’t look like he is toying with her, or teasing her. He looks quiet, and sincere. After a moment of consideration, she says, hesitantly: “You never told me what Jakeeb did to your comms arrays.”

 

He makes a faint gesture of surprise with his face, then tilts his own head, just a little, something very faint and almost fond creeping into his features. “Perhaps I should invite you back to see for yourself,” he says, almost teasingly.

 

“I think you should,” she says, cautiously unfolding herself and lowering herself to the mattress beside him. “But while you’re here you could tell me anyway.”

 

“Indeed.” He slides his arm around her shoulders, and pulls very gently until she decides, yes, it is safe, and probably agreeable, to press her body alongside his, and rest her head on his chest again. “Where,” he says, voice a deep rumble that she can feel as well as hear, “would you like me to begin?”


	8. An Attitude of Service, Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arihnda remembers her home.

_ 'A man is not a soldier ... until he loves his colors, and is ready to put hand to sword every time the honor of the regiment is attacked.' - Bugeaud _

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

__

 

 

 

 

Time shifts again.

 

It is only when seconds, minutes, hours, and days begin to snap back to their accustomed shape that Arihnda realizes how they'd been warped and dilated — stretched into sucking maws — for the week and half after her meeting with Ghadi.

 

Time becomes normal first when she is alone. 

 

Then it becomes normal during banal interactions. 

 

Then at the senate. 

 

Then, inexorably, though it still retains a strained edge, with Driller and her colleagues at Higher Skies.

 

Finally, time becomes normal with Thrawn.

 

The shift to new normalcy takes, strangely, in a way that belies the epochal shift that has occurred in her own imagining of her own life, only a couple of weeks. 

 

~*~

 

She begins to feel time, the quality of time, when she lays with her head on Thrawn's chest, and he tells her about Jakeeb’s modifications to the  _ Thunder Wasp _ — minor technical improvements, uninteresting in and of themsleves but described with dry elan and sly charm, his deep voice rumbling in the cavern of his chest, his warm hand wandering lazily along her side — and as she relaxes into the moment, it begins to seem she might listen forever.

 

When he draws the conversation to a close, referencing the fact he needs to depart, time collapses on itself, condensed suddenly into the pinpoint of his presence, the infinitesimal present.

 

She tries, for the sake of her own self-conception as much as concern for how she looks to him, not to let it show, but some of it must. She can tell because he mocks her about it, sardonic but gentle, and because he stops to kiss her before he leaves. Once. She makes it twice, three times. He teases her about that, too, with a single dry comment, but he kisses her once more after he says it. It feels like management — but she is not entirely sure if she minds.

 

She lies awake after he leaves. She feels time dragging at her. She feels as if her mind is cooling, recovering from a fever, or drunkenness, and the mechanism of her sentiments begins to freeze and clench again, her old accustomed patterns: the start of a hunt for a retreat, a solution, for protective cover. She has said too much, shown too much, felt too much, much too much, and all too fast —

 

Then her comm beeps. The private one. She hears it from the outer room. She is so surprised that at first she doesn’t move at all. It continues, a patient beacon, and she pushes herself out of the bed and scrambles out to the table, paws through her clothes for the comm, and takes a sharp breath to right herself just before answering. 

 

There is no question of who is calling, only of why.

 

The reason seems to be simply to let her know he has returned to his ship. He lets her know that he is well; he lets her know that the ship is well (“ _ since you are so interested in it, _ ” he adds dryly after saying so); he asks if she is well.

 

This, she recognizes instantly, is absolutely a form of management.

 

And she decides instantly that she absolutely does not mind.

 

She is well, yes, she tells him, which he says is good to know. Then he tells her other things about the ship, in brief but precise, almost evocative, terms. He gives her a sense of how busy he will be in the upcoming days, that he may not be available to her. Then, smoothly moving them both along, he asks if she pleased to know that her intervention with Senator Organa is accomplishing its goal. She is, yes, glad, she says. Good, he says. He thought she would be. She can practically hear the curve in the corner of his mouth. She stands with the comm in her hand for a long minute after he disconnects. 

 

When she returns to the bed, she falls asleep too quickly and thoroughly to remember the process.

 

~*~

 

She doesn’t see him the following day, but she does hear from him. He contacts her precisely at the appointed time. She imagines as they speak that their rapport is warmer. Easier. The strain of the past couple of days seems to have dissipated. Is she well? Has anything of note transpired since they last spoke? Is she, personally, well? 

 

Certain ways of being managed, she decides, are not so different from being cared for — certainly not when she knows she could use the help, offloading some portion of the mental strain of her still-fractured existence onto someone she's started to trust.

 

It hardly bothers her when she receives a message from Bail Organa pushing back their meeting another week.

 

~*~

 

She doesn’t see Thrawn the day after that, either, or the one after that, but that feels… acceptable. He is genuinely quite busy, now that repairs are really getting underway. He does not seem bothered by Bail’s request to postpone again. Their calls feel familiar, and pleasant. He does not have to ask her who Higher Skies is trying to recruit, or even why Driller is choosing those targets in particular; she offers her own acid speculation on the subject without anything more than polite, conversational prompting. He doesn’t seem to mind when she  _ keeps him on the line,  _ either; he says the phrase itself like a shared joke, and an enjoyable one.

 

When the calls are over, she tucks the comm back into her pocket and then keeps her fingers pressed to it for a moment, and she feels the good feeling  _ partner, partner, partner,  _ like the pulse of her heart. 

 

~*~

 

At night, she dreams of him: vivid, and tangible. And half-waking, and half-sleeping, provides her own hands, soft and almost lazy, in place of his.

 

And half-waking, or half-sleeping, she finds herself vulnerable to a feeling, a gently piercing ache, that says something is missing from the moment — and that what is missing is not merely physical.

 

~*~

 

And then at the end of the week their mid-day check is exactly that: just a check. Very quick, almost perfunctory.  He is duly apologetic — as apologetic as he ever is, most of that merely the performance of good manners — but he hangs up without much of a goodbye, and hardly an excuse. It sets an alarm ringing, one that leaves her distracted the rest of the day. 

 

But she doesn’t have time to act on it immediately. Instead, she goes to see Doctor Carteret, as scheduled. Doctor Carteret — Helen, she makes Arihnda call her Helen — asks Arihnda how she has been feeling.

 

“Everything seems fine,” she says. Then, to drive the conversation away from the alarm that is still ringing in the back of her mind, she says: “I’m hoping you’ll tell me that that’s  _ not  _ just my imagination.”

 

“I’m sure it’s not,” says Helen after a slight, considering pause. “But let’s check anyway.”

 

Helen is pleased with everything, and Arihnda is pleased to know it. She makes an appointment for the next week — at Helen’s request, because  _ this is all good for now, but since we still don’t know what he is…  _ — and leaves feeling reasonably light.

 

But the alarm is still sounding.

 

She calls Thrawn, in the evening.

 

The call is a little awkward at first: he is trying to suss out her purpose without being entirely impolite, she is trying to decide how to say it — it slips out: “Did something happen to the ship, earlier? I checked the holonet —”

 

“We had a minor accident while upgrading one of the turbo-laser turrets,” he says with a very subtle expansiveness in his tone that might be relief. “One of the technicians had a malfunction with his zero-gravity suit. Tragic for him personally, and inconvenient to everything else. Repairs will be halted until an inquiry is complete and a report is issued. Standard peacetime procedure for all such accidents. I do not believe it will set us back more than a few days.”

 

“Oh,” says Arihnda, with an expansiveness in her own tone that is absolutely relief.

 

There is a pause that might be real, or might be her perceptions. Then he says, inquiring, perhaps amused: “Were you concerned?”

 

Then there is a pause that is not her perceptions. A pause that is her own sudden flood of hot-cheeked embarrassment. “I was, yes,” she says with all the dignity she can muster, forcing herself to speak over a queer impulse to hide, and lie — which is the first time that she finds herself truly unsettled by her own warped first instinct.

 

But as she’s noticed from talking with Bail, telling the truth feels better anyway.

 

Thrawn seems to appreciate it, too, because after a brief pause he says: “How flattering,” and it almost sounds like, somewhere underneath his dry amusement, it might be true.

 

~*~

 

The next day, a free day, he is finally free to see her in the evening.

 

The good feeling from seeing Helen, the tentative stamp of medical approval, and the giddy excitement of the prospect of his presence, are both tinged by a low anxiety that begins creeping into her after their mid-day call, when he confirms that he will, in fact, see her in person that night. It is a return of the low, creeping anxiety she had felt after his departure a week ago, before that surprisingly soothing late night call: the sense that she has crossed some kind of foolish boundary, and that she must make at least an effort at retreat, even a futile one, lest she look the fool.

 

As she is starting to seethe over the problem, he knocks. So he has gone back to knocking. Bad? Good? Merely considerate?

 

One way to find out.

 

She opens the door for him.

 

And for a moment, they stand on opposite sides of the the threshold. 

 

“Hello,” he says politely.

 

Which doesn’t seem bad, after all.

 

“Hello,” she says back. She breathes the word, almost: lets it rise out of her on a sudden upward rush of effervescence in her chest. 

 

He tilts his head, raises an eyebrow, and says, gently but very dryly: “Are you going to invite me in, or have you developed a preference for comm link?”

 

Her back stiffens very briefly, a natural reflex towards offense. She leans back, the start of a backward step, then changes her mind. She leans forward a little, tilts her chin up. “How are the repairs going?”

 

The raised eyebrow arches higher. “Very well,” he says, the modulated rumble of his voice something she can almost feel in the core of her body. “Shall I tell you about them?”

 

She takes one deep, slow, delighted breath. Takes him in for another, lovely moment: the uniform, crisp and neat. The rank plaque. The angles of his face. The low fire of his eyes. The faint curl in the corner of his mouth. The fact that he is really, truly, trangibly, present. “Yes, Commander,” she croons at him, turning sideways on her heel, so she can lean back against the wall. “I’d like that very much.”

 

He tilts his head, looking at her curiously, and his lips twitch a little, almost a smile. “Indeed,” he says, stepping over the threshold, watching her.

 

The door closes behind him. He stops across from her. There is not much room between them in the entryway. Arihnda’s head is pressed back against the wall, her spine is curved outward, her hands tucked behind her. As she leans against the wall the bubbling feeling in her chest condenses, and warm, and spools downward within her, gathering low between her legs with a feeling that has all the warm comfort and soft joy of a familiar greeting _. _

 

“What would you like to know?” he asks with obvious amusement.

 

“No more accidents?”

 

“No more accidents,” he confirms.

 

“And the inquiry will be simple?”

 

“It will be, yes. I did not believe a root cause analysis to be necessary. The Director of the Naval Personnel Safety Commission’s Inquiry Board agreed.”

 

Arihnda isn't particularly familiar with the entity he’s named, but she takes the general point. She can brush up a little more on Naval bureaucracy some other time. And anyway, it's not her focus — although she infers that he's spoken with Director in question personally, which is interesting, and something she makes a note to ask about, later. She says: “So you’ll be back on schedule soon?”

 

“Soon enough.”

 

“So you’d say it's all going well, then?”

 

“Very well, yes.” He seems to look her up and down as she says it.

 

“So you’re  _ pleased _ , then, with how everything is going?” she asks, voice turning almost melodic.

 

He tilts his head again, mouth curving wryly: indulgence, certainly. “I am, yes.”

 

Which is the answer she expected, but when he says it she finds she believes him completely, and her heart half-skips. She's too pleased to be embarrassed. Instead, she draws a hand from behind herself, and reaches, slowly, for his rank plaque. Presses two fingers to it. 

 

“That’s good, Commander,” she says slowly, looking at the plaque. She presses her fingers there a little harder. “I find, so far, I’m pleased as well.”

 

“Are you?” She can hear that he is still smiling. It is probably the same smile: equally amused and indulgent, slightly smug and entirely sly.

 

“I am. Although,” she adds slowly, taking care to make her voice sound easy, not uneven like the glittering delight she feels arcing through her nerves, “I don’t feel you’ve properly  _ thanked  _ me for intervening on the  _ Thunder Wasp _ ’s behalf.”

 

“Have I not?”

 

“Mmm,” she says, the sound low and almost lyrical, “no.” She begins to run her middle finger along the plaque, back and forth. “I don’t think you have.”

 

There is a little silence. She is still looking at the plaque. Into the silence, voice soft, he says: “I presume that you would like me to.”

 

Her finger stops. The low hum of anticipation blooms to life everywhere within her. She holds herself perfectly still.

 

Then she raises her eyes, slowly, to look at his face. He is unsmiling, but not in a way that looks unhappy. Very slowly, she nods: once, twice, three times.

 

As she nods, a fine, sleek smile unfurls across his face: it spreads slow and lazy across his mouth. It’s sly and self-satisfied, and it sends a giddy, breathless thrill through Arihnda’s body. 

 

“A minor oversight,” he says steadily, low voice making her nerves flare. He raises a hand to her face, cups her cheek. Arihnda’s mouth has gone very dry. “Easily remedied,” he adds, before pulling her forward.

 

She moves into him easily, peeling her body away from the wall and leaning forward, and up, eyes drifting closed as he lowers his head towards hers. It’s a steady, gentle kiss; almost chaste, at first. She slips her hands up along his chest, gaberwool scratching at her palms, and wraps her arms around his neck. His mouth moves against hers: less chaste, still gentle. He moves both his hands to her waist, lazily: a loose grip, only the suggestion from his fingers that she keep her spine curved into him, no more than that. 

 

She follows the suggestion, and moves her head with his: strange choreography, easy to get lost in. She is happy to be lost: the whole moment provides a good, warm feeling of respite. A place outside of other problems. His tongue brushes her lower lip; she tilts her head a little, opens her mouth for him, leans into him. Relaxed, easy. 

 

He kisses her jaw. He slips his arms around her waist, kisses her neck. She tightens her arms around him in return, moves her head strangely, the motion almost feline, almost but not quite rubbing her cheek against his hair. Without thinking, she says: “I missed you.”

 

His mouth stops moving. Arihnda, suddenly still, is not sure if that is good, bad, or something else entirely. She feels, again, the impulse to cover, retreat, hide — lie. Instead, she holds herself steady, and waits to see. He draws away from her, straightening his spine, raising his head to look at her face. The motion seems to take forever.

 

“Did you?” he asks mildly. His hands are still on her body, still holding her loosely. He is looking at her closely, attentive and interested. 

 

And she stamps down, again, on her own strange instinct to make lies where they need not exist. With an effort of will she says instead, as simply as she can: “Yes.” 

 

He lifts one of his hands off of her torso. His expression becomes… keener, she thinks. He puts his hand on her face: heel of his hand on the curve of her jaw, long fingers curved around her head and neck, tilting her head back, holding her. He says a single word, low voice rumbling from somewhere deep in his throat: “Flattering.”

 

And then he tightens his fingers against her neck, drops his gaze to her lips, and follows his line of sight with his mouth. She shuts her eyes at the last moment, like ducking for cover — and then there is nothing but sensation.

 

He pulls her tight, and tighter still, against him. His mouth isn’t cruel against hers, but it isn’t quite so soft, this time, either. He’s direct, purposeful.

 

And Arihnda, feeling as if she gotten away with something, feeling a strange mix of sudden, confused, satisfied pride and dizzy, stupid relief, is eager to be the object of his purpose.

 

He’s moving against her, and she’s moving with him: awkward shuffling steps, one, two, almost three, and she’s pressed against the wall. He opens her mouth with his own, again; teases her tongue with his, again.

 

Not such a stupid thing to have said, after all, she decides, moving her tongue against his. Like pushing herself past the boundary of kissing him in the first place. She catches his upper lip between her teeth, for a moment. He digs his fingers into her waist. Letting him know that she wants him is like flipping a switch. She is breathing through her nose. No, she decides. Telling him how much he’s wanted — he's got her more or less pinned to the wall — is not a bad idea at all.

 

He’s moving his hands, his touch roaming over her upper body, her sides, her torso, until he finds the edges of her clothes, and starts pulling at them. She’s wearing old clothing, chosen for comfort rather than fashion, things she brought with her from Lothal: a short, neutral-toned wrap and dark, high-waisted leggings. She doesn’t know why, really, she’d wanted that morning to dress in something that had felt like home, in things she'd kept only out of thriftiness — but it doesn’t seem to have been a bad choice, wearing soft fabric that yields softly when he curls his hands against it and pulls it up, over her head, over her arms, and tosses it aside.

 

He pushes her back against the wall, and kisses down the length of her neck again, down her chest, as far down as he can go without kneeling —

 

And then he sinks down in front of her and presses his mouth to her belly. It takes her breath away, takes her brain away, for a moment, and when her thoughts catch up to reality again he’s hooking his thumbs into the top of her pants and starting to pull them down, moving his mouth lower, lower, lower, over each newly exposed place as he does, and his ultimate intent there is pretty obvious — 

 

She slides a hand into his hair, and then twists her fingers and pulls his head back sharply, an act that is meant to be timely more than cruel, and says, breathlessly: “ _ Bed.”  _

 

From his place at her feet, he says, dryly: “Are you in a hurry?” He slides his hands up to her waist and raises one eyebrow, archy. “I am keeping you from something, perhaps?” 

 

“Mm, no,” she says, tightening her hand in his hair a little more firmly, experimentally. He sucks in a breath, subtly, as if he might like what she’s doing. She likes it, too: having him down on his knees in front of her. And she likes what he does when he gets on his knees for her, pressing his mouth to her belly, to her hips, to the swath of skin between her hips — but she doesn't think she’ll get much pleasure out of the rest of his obvious purpose if she's standing while he goes after it. She runs her hand through his hair once with a gentleness that takes her by surprise and makes her snatch her hand away as if to regain control of it before saying, rather brusquely: “I’d just like to be comfortable, Commander.”

 

He is silent for a moment, as if he is considering her. Then he says, with his usual dryness: “Of course.” He rocks back onto his heels and rises, a single obnoxiously smooth and balanced action. “I defer to you, Miss Pryce.” 

 

She turns on her heel, shaking her head, and walks, briskly, towards the bedroom. Somewhere behind her, leisurely, he follows.

 

It's not so far from the hall to the bed — it only feels that way.

 

And it only feels, apparently, that he was far behind her, because when she stops three paces from the bed, he covers whatever distance there is between them before she gathers the will to turn around.

 

He covers the distance, and takes hold of her arms just above the elbows, pulls her back against him, pushes his face against the back of her head, and breathes her in. For a moment, neither of them does anything. Then he slides his arms around her waist and speaks into her hair. His approach has the uneasy aura of a deniable moment, the kind that she is so used crafting or seeing crafted in the senate halls: stealing space for a conversation both parties can and should forget if it goes poorly. With his face pressed against the back of her head, he says: “Tell me what you missed.”

 

She turns her head, as if she could find his face with hers and press her forehead to his cheek, and she tries a simple version of the truth: “This,” she says.

 

His arms tighten further around her middle. “Be specific,” he murmurs.

 

She she wraps her arms over his, grasps his wrists. Her grip is as much to hold him as it is to hold herself in place against a sudden impulse to turn around and wrap her arms around him fully, which she feels would break the moment. “I am being specific,” she murmurs back.

 

He doesn't speak, but turns his head again, and finds the spot on the back of her neck that he found the very first night, and presses his mouth to her skin — 

 

She tightens her hands on his wrists, gasps, stiffens in his arms. God —  _ good _ . A wash of excitement over her nerves, a swell of desire deep between her legs. She digs her fingers into his wrists. He presses his tongue out between his lips, puts pressure on the spot, draws out her response until she whimpers —

 

He moves his mouth, kisses her neck lower down, the place where it blends into her back, then kisses the crook of her neck, the place where it meets her shoulder. She lets her head loll back against him. He kisses her jaw. “Is that what you missed?” he says into her ear. His tone is teasing, but only the surface.

 

“Mm,” she says, loosening her grip on his wrists. What she had missed, of course, was not precisely  _ this,  _ but more generally him, all of him, in a way that is difficult for her to express with words — and trying to articulate it feels a bit excessive, and perhaps off the point. Whatever he needs he seems to be getting from his usual fixation on her, anyway. So, leaning almost languidly against him, she decides to break the moment, or at least move it forward. 

 

“I don’t feel I’ve been completely thanked yet, Commander,” she says with mock hauteur. 

 

He gives a low laugh. “Not  _ yet,”  _ he repeats with wry emphasis. Then he says, just as wryly: “I am of course happy to return to that task whenever you wish. I am in no hurry.”

 

“That’s good,” she says. And she isn’t in a hurry either. She’s perfectly content, for the moment, to keep leaning against him, with his arms around her, and her face against his. “You do know about patience.”

 

He laughs softly. “Are  _ you _ counseling patience, Miss Pryce?”

 

“Perhaps,” she says. “Perhaps we could stand to explore it again.”

 

Another laugh. “I thought you considered it a matter of practice.”

 

“Oh, that too. Either, or.”

 

“Either, or,” he murmurs back to her. He moves his head again, catches her mouth with his own: an awkward kiss, at an odd angle, but she doesn't mind. Then he says, softly, mouth close to hers: “Get on the bed, since that’s where you’re  _ comfortable _ , and I will show you something to do with patience.”

 

“Will it make me feel thanked?”

 

He laughs again, slips his arms free of her, pushes her towards the bed gently. “I certainly intend it to. If not…” another soft laugh… “I shall try an alternative solution. We have all night, after all.”

 

Her hands are already on her bra, unfastening it, and she pauses, and turns. “Do we?”

 

He’s in the middle of removing his belt. There's a wry smile on his face that flickers just a fraction at her tone, and he makes an expression like a shrug. “Our investigation is somewhat stalled, likely until Mister MarDapp receives another payment from Nightswan — a waiting period, not so unusual. The repairs are stalled, as you know. I am at liberty tomorrow. I believe I can return then without drawing undue attention.” And then, manners raised like a shield, what she's coming to recognize as a form of prudent, clear-minded self-defense, perfectly understandable manipulation and social engineering of his own, he adds: “It would be convenient enough for me to remain, if you would like.”

 

Time, suspended, for a moment. Then in her chest, a ringing feeling  _ — _

 

She reaches towards him. Her fingertips brush the front of his uniform. “Show me how to take this off of you,” she says in a rush. 

 

The briefest of pauses. He tosses the belt aside with on hand, takes one of her wrists with the other, pulls her in. “Certainly,” he says.

 

The fastenings are cleverly made and cleverly hidden, but easy enough to work when she knows how to find them. Her fingers, over-eager, could be steadier, but he doesn't seem to mind; he laughs at her when she makes a noise of frustration, and shrugs the jacket all the way off when she pushes it back over his shoulders. She leaves her hands on his shoulders, looks at him — at his body, not at his face. Neck, collarbones, shoulders, arms, outline of his chest beneath the black undershirt: she lets her hands wander with her attention, a hungry dance of flat palms and trailing fingers. He puts his hands lightly on her hips. 

 

Maybe it's the interest she's shown in peeling his clothing off of him with her own two hands, maybe it's whatever boundary they’d pushed past the week before, whatever boundary they seem to be beyond now, maybe it’s how much more demanding she is being in general this evening, which seems to work for him more than not. Whatever it is, she knows he is markedly more engaged than the last time she’d tried this. She feels that he is, finally, becoming excited by her touch rather than merely being tolerant of it — and that idea excites her almost more than the act of touching him. She runs her hands down his torso, down towards the high waistline of his jodhpurs, and feels his midriff tighten, briefly, beneath her touch, hardly a contraction, hardly more than a twitch. She looks up at his face. His eyes are burning.

 

She reaches up with one hand, curves her fingers around the back of his neck and pulls him towards her. He digs his fingers into her hips, pulls her forward, and bends down to her: half obedience, half hunger. Their mouths meet half-open, move, lock together. With her free hand, she curls her grasp into the fabric of his undershirt, fingers bunching low against his midriff, tugging upward. 

 

He helps: takes his hands off of her and backs away, which she doesn't like at all, and strips his undershirt off and tosses it casually aside, which she likes a great deal.

 

He pulls her in with one hand on her neck and the other on her waist, and she yields her mouth back up to him and puts her arms around him, and finds herself reaching over his shoulders, down his back, palms flat on his skin, fingers digging for purchase —

 

Then they're moving, still kissing, taking steps, not really graceful, towards the bed, onto which they sort of tumble, with a thud. It breaks their kiss, but only for a moment, and then he’s pressing into her again, leaning over her, half-crawling onto the bed, half-shoving her as he does —

 

And then he isn't kissing her mouth anymore, but her throat, her collarbone— his hands are digging under her back, unfastening her bra, then his hands on her chest again, pushing the bra up off her breasts, and he’s kissing her there, too —

 

“What about patience?” she gasps.

 

“We have time,” he says between kisses. Then he stands, pushes himself back off the bed, pulls off his boots, and then everything else from the waist down. She can see that he's aroused, although less than she would have expected. The observation causes her only a momentary twinge of anxiety. The rest will follow from his obvious interest, eventually, she supposes. “And as I have said,” he continues, crawling back on to the bed, leaning over her, “I am in no hurry.”

 

“It feels like you are,” she says. 

 

“Oh? I can certainly remedy that.” He raises one hand, runs his fingers through her hair, kisses her softly. “I believe I intended to show you something that requires patience.”

 

“Yes,” she says, relaxing into the mattress, “you did.”

 

“Although,” he continues conversationally, sitting back on his heels, his body balanced over her thighs, and coaxing her bra, which is still clinging to her shoulders by its straps, down over her arms, and tossing it away, “I believe the blame for this detour lies with you.”

 

“Does it? I thought it was your little bit of news that sidetracked us.”

 

“Sidetracked  _ you,  _ Miss Pryce,” he says easily, stroking his fingers lightly across her skin, from shoulders to belly, taking the measure of everything between, “I am merely following your… suggestions.” He runs his hands down to her hips and rests them there, lightly. “You will need to participate a little for the next part,” he says.

 

“Mm,” she says, pushing herself onto her elbows. “You’ll have to move a little, too,” she tells him.

 

He makes a short sound, between a laugh and a snort, and swings off of her, and sits on the bed beside her. She peels off the rest of her clothes — inelegantly, and without any thought for how she looks doing it or how she looks without them — and tosses them to the floor.

 

Then she turns her attention to him. 

 

He is sitting cross-legged, holding out a hand. “Come here,” he says mildly. “Put your legs around me.”

 

She crawls into his lap — clambers, really — a procedure that probably looks as awkward as it feels, and settles there with her legs wrapped around him. Her hands are on his shoulders, her forearms resting against his chest. His arms are around her, his hands flat against her back: one low, on the base of her spine, the other just below her shoulder blades. And their faces are just about even with each other. Strange, the way their closeness feels conspicuous like this: as much as the other night, really, sitting together in a chair, when they’d both been clothed, or the one other time they’d sat exactly like this, if only briefly —  _ you are supposed to be breathing.  _

 

She hadn’t really gotten the point of it then, and she doesn’t quite understand the attraction now, either. Although, this time, it’s less anxiety and more befuddlement she feels. And she is at least willing to give it a try, whatever  _ it  _ is supposed to be.

 

“I expected you to have something a little different in mind,” she says, a little frown etching itself lightly on her features. “This wasn’t what I interrupted in the hallway.”

 

He favors her with half a smile, an expression that is all charm. His hand makes a flat, gentle circle against the middle of her back, warm and almost soothing. “I certainly intend to return to that,” the says, “but I thought first we might practice patience, for a little while.”

 

She digs her fingers into his shoulders for the briefest of moments, then forces her hands to relax. Takes a breath. “And what kind of practice exactly did you have in mind?”

 

His smile changes a little, becomes narrower, and his eyelids lower. He drops his chin, just a little, and leans his head forward, just a tiny bit, and purses his lips…

 

And blows a soft, cool current of air against her neck.

 

It feels a great deal better, probably, than it has a right to. She shivers, takes a loud breath from surprise, and then sighs. “Oh,” she says. “And for how long are we going to do this?”

 

He drops his head to her shoulder, briefly, and gives a low laugh. “I plan on doing more than this,” he says, lifting his head. Then he smiles again, and rubs his hand against the length of her back, and says: “Come close. Closer. Breathe. Relax.”

 

Of course he does not say  _ hold me,  _ but the opportunity is there, so she takes it, pressing herself close against him.

 

His touch against her back changes from the flat, broad stroke of his palm to the teasing trails of his fingers, light and electric against her spine. She shivers. 

 

“Relax, like that,” he says. Then he tilts his head a little, and blows on the other side of her neck. It makes her react in much the same way. He pulls his head back to look at her, again — and the look on his face is narrow, careful, assessing. She has a feeling, which she has had before, that he is viewing her as a kind of specimen. 

 

But the strange, unnerving beat only lasts a moment.

 

In the next moment, he leans forward and presses a kiss to her temple. She closes her eyes, and then feels him move, and plant a kiss on her cheekbone, just below her eye, and then at the corner of her mouth, and then on the side of her chin, and then on her neck. She closes her arms tighter around his neck and head, as if to pull him closer. “This is nice,” she says.

 

He shifts his arm around her, pulls her tighter, twists his fingers in her hair, tilts her head back. “Is it?” he says against her neck.

 

“Mm,” she says, “very.” She strokes her fingers against the base of his skull. “Is this your, ah, plan for thanking me?”

 

A low sound, like a laugh. “The start of it,” he says.

 

“Oh, good,” she murmurs. She is stroking her fingers, lazy and fond, through his hair. “I quite like it so far.” And, voice soft with relief and desire, fingers skimming his hair near the curve of his ear as she speaks, she says: “I’m looking forward to the rest of it.”

 

She feels him hiss as much as she hears it. A sudden, momentary freezing in his body, a pause in the motion of his mouth, a sharp inhalation. His head comes up, sharply, and he gives her a narrow, wary look. All these things happen together, in the briefest moment, as her finger scrapes across his ear just so, entirely on accident. 

 

She stops moving her hands. 

 

“Did you like that?” She tries to keep her voice even, but the question comes out high and hopeful instead. His reaction had been ambiguous at best, and she deeply hopes he’ll tell her it was good.

 

He doesn’t answer, or move; he only raises an eyebrow at her. 

 

It’s not entirely uninviting.

 

Carefully, she moves her hand, takes the top of his ear gently between her thumb and forefinger and rubs lightly along the curve of it. She feels him inhale, controlled, soft — “I think you  _ do _ like it,” she murmurs, breathy and thrilled.

 

“And if I do?” he says, with only vague irony.

 

“If you like it, I can do it again,” she says, excitement bleeding into her body as much as her voice. And she scrapes a nail slowly along the upper curve of his ear, and even as he’s watching her she gets her little reward: a little breath in and out, that she can feel where his belly touches hers. She thinks it’s a much better reaction than she’d gotten the last time she’d tried to ply his body the way that he plies hers. And again, it seems her turn to laugh at him, guileless and delighted, deep in her throat, a sound that's borne aloft by something like joy bubbling up inside her. A surprisingly innocent sort of wonder — or maybe relief — floods through her:  _ I can do this for you, too. _

 

His hands have drifted to her waist. His eyes, she thinks, are brighter: glinting like reflected flame.

 

She looks at him for a minute, then, half instinct, says: “Let me —” She moves both her hands, puts gentle pressure on his chin and the base of his skull which — eyes flashing faintly — he permits. She turns his head so she can… 

 

Carefully, a little uncertain, she leans forward and takes the edge of his ear between her teeth and pulls.

 

Her reward is instant: his body tenses, his fingers dig into her middle, tight and almost painful, and abruptly he takes another low, hissing breath that sounds like pleasure, and she finds herself laughing again, low in her throat, with the soft curve of his earlobe still pinched gently between her teeth — only pinched there for a moment more, since she is still pulling her head away, scraping her teeth along his skin with exaggerated slowness, until she pulls her teeth entirely away, and looks back at his face.

 

She finds him watching her with narrow assessment, but not of a wary kind.

 

“Good?” she asks, with more certainty than hope.

 

His eyelids flicker half-closed and then open again, his gaze seemingly moving from her eyes to her mouth and back again. “Yes,” he says, which makes her chest swell with pride and excitement.

 

Her excitement comes out in action, which has an edge that is almost violence. She digs her fingers into his neck and his head where she is still holding him, and holds him still as if pinning him place while she pushes her mouth against his and kisses him close-lipped, hungry and graceless and fierce, for a brief moment. Then, keeping her face close to his, keeping her eyes closed, she kisses one side of his mouth, and then the other, and then, almost out of humor, but also because it is a conveniently available point on the way to her destination, and primarily because she wants to touch every inch of his skin with her lips, she kisses his chin.

 

Then she dips her head low, and pushes her nose under his jaw and presses up, and leans in, tilting her face to reach the yielding flesh above his adam’s apple, and fastens her mouth there and sucks, swirling her tongue against the strange and pleasant texture of his skin as she does.

 

She’s rewarded for that, too, with a short groan that makes her widen her mouth and add her teeth with eager appetite, which earns another sound, lower and more guttural. The addition of her teeth seems to set his hands loose, too: his touch wanders along her sides, up her ribs, and across her back.

 

She kisses down into the hollow of his throat and then up along the cordon of muscle on the side of his neck, biting as she goes, and his breathing changes, and his hands move less and less carefully, proprietary and borderless. He grasps her breast, firmly, drawing a moan from her at roughly the same moment that she closes her teeth against the curve of his other ear and draws a rough, low sound from him.

 

She pulls her head back until her teeth are clear of him again, and is about to dive back into the crook of his neck, devouring and fierce, when he knots his hand in her hair and yanks her head back. He looks at her for only a short moment, breathing ragged, no softness in his expression at all, before he says: “Enough detours, I think.”

 

“Alright,” she says, voice strangely high and small. She has only the vaguest notion of what he intends next, but it hardly matters. She’s so practically dizzy with a giddy flush of accomplishment that she’d almost agree to anything — and she trusts, more or less, that anything he’d want to do to her is something she’ll enjoy.

 

“Lay back for me,” he says, voice still strangely strained. 

 

She does, with a little help from him: he tips forward onto his knees, one arm looped behind her until she is lowered to the mattress, so that sitting in his cross-legged lap transforms into laying on her back beneath him, and then he crawls backwards, moving on all fours like an animal, until he’s where he wants to be, and then, wordlessly, he pushes her legs apart, and shoves his face into her with such artless ferocity that she thinks of the way he’s eating her as being like the behavior of an animal, too. 

 

“Stop, stop, stop,” she says, shoving at his forehead. “Slow down.”

 

She can hear him breathing even over the sound of her own breathing. He lets her push his head away, turns his face to the side, and nips at her thigh. She gives a small shriek of surprise, and then he bites her thigh more firmly, and sucks the flesh so fiercely she’s certain it will leave a bruise. And then he pulls his mouth away, and presses his face against he same soft flesh for a minute, and softly kisses aching place he’d bitten once, then twice, lingering the second time, and then turns his head to the other side, kisses her other thigh gently — and then, as if he’s mastered himself, turns his attention back to the core of her. 

 

And this time he is slow, but not exactly gentle, acting with a kind of attentiveness that becomes relentlessness. His lips and tongue take in all of her, coax her up to and then over one slow crest of trembling pleasure that makes her moan long, wordless vowels. Then the pressure of his tongue pushes her over another, faster crest that makes her shake, and yell, and then again, something more intense, making her scream, and he’s still not stopping, hands digging into her hips, pinning her, until she is bucking and gasping, and she has to force herself to cry out “Stop, stop, stop,” again before he does. 

 

And he gives her only a moment of respite, his head pressed against her thigh, before he begins moving his mouth up her body, pressing kisses like brands of ownership along the length of her, from the crease of her hip up her belly, between her breasts, along her neck, on her face, until he is balanced above her on his elbows and she opens her eyes. There is more desire than empathy in his expression.

 

“Did you miss that, as well?” he asks, trying and failing, she thinks, for humor. There’s dangerous hunger in his voice, and a dark irony, too — and just below the surface, there’s something that digs sharply at her heart, and she feels the terrible upwelling in her chest, and cups his face before she can consider the action. 

 

It makes him blink as if in surprise, and she finds she is surprised by it, too. For a precarious moment, neither of them says anything.

 

And she decides to beat a hasty retreat, on behalf of them both.

 

“Is that all the thanks I get?” she says, voice as low and as mockingly ravenous as she can manage.

 

He blinks again, perhaps again in surprise, but she thinks the expression that ripples briefly and subtly across his face is, possibly, relief.

 

“Of course not, Miss Pryce,” he says in a more genuinely humorous tone — and there is, yes, definitely, she thinks, relief in that. He sits back on his heels and considers her for a moment, running his fingers over her midriff and thighs, and through the soft smattering of short hair beginning to fill in between her legs. “Turn over for me,” he murmurs.

 

He doesn’t say it coldly but she nevertheless feels, for a moment, strangely alone, as if she had hoped he might not take such full advantage of the distance she had made for both of them.

 

But she acts anyway, disentangling their bodies, turning on to her hands and knees. He moves behind her: put his hands on her waist, bends, kisses the middle of her back. The passing specter of loneliness passes almost, though not quite, entirely away. 

 

He puts a hand between her shoulder blades and presses, and she takes the point: lowers herself to her chest, so her weight is on her cheek and neck and shoulders and hands. He sits back again, trailing his hand along her back as he does. She can feel the head of his cock, pressing against her, feel him line himself up with her with his hand —

 

And without asking, he pushes himself slowly inside of her.

 

Not asking first is certainly new.

 

She tenses, for a moment, then decides that, probably, it’s fine — the mass of him inside her isn’t quite a source of unambiguous pleasure, not following so rapidly on so much other stimulation, but he’s warm and not uncomfortable and generally the feeling of him is…  _ satisfying _ , and it wasn’t like she was about to change her mind in the half a minute or so it took them to get set up, so probably it’s all... fine. It’s fine. She sighs and makes herself relax, stretching like a cat: curving her back, dropping her belly low, flexing her fingers against the mattress.

 

For a moment he stays still inside her. He rubs his hands along her body: hands sliding warm and heavy from her hips down her back, curving around her ribs, then coming back along the same path. She sighs again when he rubs her back, starting to feel truly relaxed. Then he begins to move.

 

It's slow, at first, a steady rocking of his hips. She pushes back into it, moaning. He holds her hips in place. Then, setting up a rhythm, he starts to move his hands along her back again: long, heavy stokes from her hips to her shoulders, forcing her back to bend deeper, drawing deep groans out of her, half-grunted, as his weight presses into her, pushing her chest into the mattress. It goes on and on until she is almost kneaded flat into the mattress. She can hear him breathing, harsh and loud. 

 

He stills for a moment, puts his hands on the mattress on either side of her waist, presses himself deep inside her and, still breathing hard, and drops a kiss to her shoulder. “And this?” he asks, accent heavy. “You missed this?”

 

“Yes,” she groans at him.

 

For a moment she hears only his breathing. Then he adjusts their legs, so hers are outside of his; pushes her legs wide apart with his knees; drops another kiss to her shoulder; and begins to circle his hips.

 

Her head snaps up and to the side. “Oh,” she says loudly. Her eyes are open wide, looking at the wall.

 

He pauses. “No?” he asks.

 

“Oh, uh, no — good, it’s good,” she says. She doesn’t follow up with a clarifying comment to say that it’s new for her.

 

“Good,” he breathes back at her, pressing another kiss to her back before starting again.

 

He works at it, this decidedly very different motion of his hips which makes his cock move inside her in a new and different way as well, and scatters kisses haphazardly and inattentively across her back from time to time, until his breathing becomes slower again: more even, less ragged. It feels good, certainly, but also strange — aside from the newness of the physical sensation, she is acutely aware of being much more an object than an actor, much more recipient than participant.

 

Her wandering mind has just about wandered up on the idea of asking if they can do something different, maybe turn over perhaps so she can see his face, when he sits back on his heels, pulling her hips as he does, keeping her tight against him, keeping his cock buried in the wet heat of her. Which is fine with Arihnda; she’d much prefer to keep him socketed inside of her as long as possible — and certainly it’s good timing for a change of pace. 

 

He pulls at her hips until she is in much the same position as when they began: ass in the air, weight braced against her hands, neck twisted, face sideways against he mattress. He shifts his weight a little, putting his legs outside of hers again, and she wraps her feet over his calves, as if she could lock him in place. He makes a sound when when she flexes her toes against his calves, and leans over her, and wraps his hands over hers, which are pressed into the mattress beside her shoulders, and rests his face against her. He thrusts into her with almost his entire weight, and she cries out, and for a while it is like the last time they fucked: she is wrapped up in him, and he is rocking against her, holding her and moving his mouth against her back, shoulder, neck — only the rocking thrusts are harder this time, and deeper, and the position she’s in makes it work to absorb each impact of his weight against her, and he isn’t speaking to her as she wails for him. Instead, he is groaning, too, low and deep between loud breaths, only occasionally hissing out some word in his own tongue — and sometimes, as if remembering himself, he hisses “This? You missed this?” to which she answers in an almost mechanical, whining moan “Yes” each time.

 

It goes on like this, the whole force of his body thudding into her, until she’s aching from the effort of bracing against him with every thrust, until the only parts of her that aren’t starting to scream with strain are deep inside her where his cock is sliding, although there’s an ache there, too, building beneath the pleasure. It’s all work, this terrible stiffening tension in her muscles. As much as she wants it to go on an on, it’s much too much work to let her relax enough to orgasm. The sounds she’s making are starting to edge out of enjoyment and into real complaint, and she thinks that even if he can keep going, she is going to collapse beneath him any minute —

 

And then he sits back onto his heels and pulls her up with him, their arms folded together tightly across her chest, an abrupt and not entirely comfortable action that makes her yell a little in surprise. They end with her seated now against his thighs and his cock still within her, his heavy breathing tangible in the sound and rush of air against her ear, and the motion of his abdomen against her back.

 

He kisses her cheek, jaw, neck, a little roughly each time, and seems to be trying to catch his breath, and then he presses his face to the side of her head and says, accent so heavy it makes her doubt his grammar: “Show me what you like.”

 

“What?” she whimpers.

 

He holds one of her hands with his own and guides it down between her legs, where she's still so sensitive that she yelps when his fingers and hers together brush her clit. Maybe not being able to cum with him hammering away at her like a drill hadn't been a bad thing after all, she thinks with a flash of distress.

 

“Show me,” he says into her ear.

 

“Oh,” she says, “I can't.”

 

He tightens his arms against her chest. Her own hand is pinned to her beast beneath his grip. “Once,” he murmurs to her, his breath hot on her ear, something almost like desperation lurking beneath his tone, “once for me.”

 

She squeezes her eyes closed, and takes a shuddering breath, and for a moment, she tries. Her body spasms as she runs a finger over her clit. She jerks get fingers away. “You do it,” she gasps at him, groping for his hand where he's pinning her arm to her chest. “You do it for me.”

 

He takes a couple more heavy breaths before kissing her behind her ear and catching her one free hand, clasping her in place by the wrists. Her arms are folded together over her breasts like the bars of a cage. In the next moment he moves his free hand down between her legs, his fingers touching her deftly and directly. Arihnda bites her lip as hard as she can, to keep herself from saying stop, and closes her eyes and whimpers. He tightens his arm around her and clutches her to him as she shudders as if in attempted escape, and mutters  _ tell me you missed this  _ into her ear, touching her and touching her and touching her until her body is shaking, until she finally cries  _ stop  _ with a desperate, whining edge.

 

And then, with only a break of a few breaths, which are punctuated by fierce, dry kisses on her neck and shoulders, and one disarmingly tender touch against her cheek, he is pushing her face down into the mattress again, and then curving his body around her and thrusting more like a beast than a thinking man, muttering sometimes in basic —  _ say you missed this  _ — and sometimes not, and Arihnda is too busy working to hold her hips up against the force of him to reply with words, until in a moment that strikes her as happening entirely too soon, he thrusts deeply into her and cums.

 

For a moment he is utterly still, and utterly silent. Then he drops his face to her back again, and says something softly in his own language, lips and breath whispering against her skin. It makes her shiver, and sparks the terrible upwelling ache in her chest again, and she finds herself wrestling a sharp, aching desire to turn onto her back and embrace him. 

 

The moment is over in the next breath, when he withdraws, leaves an empty feeling in his stead, and rolls to the side — and, as he has done once before, pulls her with him. He is holding her on purpose. Holding her, and breathing deeply, sending warm air in currents across her back, where he’s curled against her.

 

Which she only tolerates for a minute before wriggling around to face him.

 

He takes the point and moves, shifts his weight beside her, and turns onto her back so they are laying in a way she prefers. She settles against his chest, and looks up at him. 

 

“I trust you feel appropriately thanked,” he says dryly, wrapping an arm loosely around her shoulders.

 

She raises an eyebrow, and decides to follow the line of humor. Evidently, it is where he feels safe. “Oh, I don’t know, Commander,” she says lightly. “I think I could stand a little more.”

 

“Oh?” Wry voice, wry curve of his lips. His hand drifts along her belly, towards the junction of her legs. She catches it, brings it to rest against her breast. 

 

“But maybe not right now,” she adds.

 

He cocks an eyebrow. The wry curve is still in his mouth.

 

“We have all night,” she adds.

 

“Indeed we do.” He rubs his hand absently against her upper arm. “Although I believe we scheduled a matter for discussion.”

 

“Did we?”

 

“Indeed. You are going to tell me about Lothal, I believe.”

 

“Am I?” she says innocently.

 

His hand moves against her arm again. “Yes. I am curious about the place you intend to govern.”

 

“And my childhood, I recall,” she says, a little unkindly.

 

“And your childhood, indeed. But you may skip over your personal experiences if they do not seem entirely relevant. I am at least interested in your assessment of the character of the place. I do not see what interest it will be to the Empire if it is merely a barren, dusty backwater, as you have implied.”

 

“It has doonium,” she says flatly, laying her head against him and curving her arm over his. He is still holding her breast, which she finds, surprisingly, more pleasant than invasive.

 

“I see,” he says. “And nothing else? I was under the impression you had plans for your homeworld beyond assisting the Empire in their efforts to strip-mine that metal from its every vein, unless I misunderstand your little visit to the Citizens’ Assistance Office, and your concern about avoiding Arik Uvis’ mistakes?”

 

She squeezes her arm against him, although even she isn’t sure what the gesture is mean to accomplish, or convey, and says: “No, you’re not wrong. I might be able to wring a worthwhile promotion out of doing a good enough job administering a glorified mining operation, but I doubt it. I was thinking…”

 

“You were thinking…?”

 

She nestles a little closer to his side. “Are you familiar with Eriadu?”

 

“Unfortunately not. I infer that I should be?”

 

“Eriadu is another world in the Outer Rim. Grand Moff Tarkin’s home planet.”

 

“Ah.”

 

“Yes. Eriadu is… there are a few wealthy planets in the Outer Rim, but not many. And most haven’t really been developed by the Empire. The Empire tends to… Take what it needs for the planets and projects it considers important, and leave the rest.”

 

“Is that not to be expected, to some degree? A certain amount of redistribution is necessary for the efficient management of a large interplanetary government, is it not?”

 

“A certain amount, yes,” she says, feeling herself edging close to the familiar sales pitch of Higher Skies’ policy platforms which, suddenly, are starting to sound almost good in their own right. “But turning entire worlds into… glorified supply depots…” She wriggles, getting more comfortable against him, and finds herself making an adjustment to Higher Skies’ pitch that’s based in her own experience with Pryce Mining. “It doesn’t create as much value as other options might, I don’t think. The Empire sucks money up into the Core —” strange, she thinks, listening to herself, how she is starting to sound a little like Bail — “and leaves behind nothing. It’s a recipe for creating —” and now she hears Renking in the back of her mind — “unruly populations.”

 

“I see,” says Thrawn slowly. “And you do not think the problem lies with a populus that is unwilling to follow the dictates of its leadership?”

 

She frowns. “I would have thought you’d say that reflects poorly on their leaders,” she says.

 

“It might,” he allows, “Depending on the circumstance. But as a general rule I find it is not always bad for people to be content with their station in life. A stable society requires that the majority of its citizens accept the course that fate has handed them, and to submit to it.”

 

Arihnda’s chest clenches a little, oddly. She pushes herself up on to her elbow, frowning at him, a half-formed objection, or question, about what he must think of  _ her _ rising in her mind —

 

But he must see it in her face, because he speaks before she can turn it into words. “Ambition is for the few, Miss Pryce,” he clarifies, reaching up to cup her cheek and rubbing his thumb there before she can speak, “and the worthy.”

 

Arihnda frowns deeper. She hears, or rather feels, the first shadow of a feeling that Bail and Thrawn might disagree on things, which could be troublesome. “Flattering, Commander,” she says slowly, “but…” She lets it trail off.

 

“But?” he prompts.

 

“Who decides who is required to submit to their station, and who is allowed to advance?”

 

A raised eyebrow. “Certainly you, Miss Pryce, will be making such choices when you make, as you call them, staffing decisions, as any person in a position of authority must. Personally, I find those who are capable of advancement distinguish themselves through superior effort. Their aptitude is evident in it.”

 

“And those with ambition but no aptitude?”

 

“They must be corrected.” He says it easily, as if it were self-evident, and raised no further questions, and had no implications. “They are generally as disruptive as they are inept,” he continues just as casually, “and are easy to identify.”

 

Arihnda is still frowning. “And what about someone who has aptitude, but whose ambitions are still disruptive?”

 

Thrawn tucks her hair behind her ear. Some of the longer strands stay there. “You are thinking of a particular example?” he asks.

 

“Juahir,” she says. “And Driller.” She chews her lip a moment more, and adds, almost a challenge: “Nightswan.”

 

His face closes for a moment. He regards her coolly. Finally, voice chilled, he says: “They must also be corrected.”

 

Arihnda sets her mouth. “Corrected.”

 

“Yes, corrected,” he says. Arihnda holds his gaze until he offers an addendum: “In some cases their ambitions might be… redirected.”

 

“Like Tal Gimm?”

 

He raises one eyebrow. “If possible.”

 

“Do you think you can redirect Nightswan, then?”

 

A cool look. No reply.

 

“Alright, fine,” she says after a minute. “Pretend I’m blind. But you were involved in that hunt before I came along, when you could have left it to the ISB. I assume there’s a reason. But don’t tell me, if you don’t want.” She huffs out an irritated breath, then goes on. “So, fine. What about when it isn't possible?”

 

Another cool, considering moment. “That is a loss for all.” Then his face softens, slightly, with curiosity. “Do you consider Mister MarDapp and Miss Madras to be losses?”

 

She pushes herself away from him, flops onto her back. He draws his arm out from beneath her as she does. “Personally?” she snarls at the ceiling, “no.”

 

But even she can hear it doesn't quite ring true. Beneath her anger there isn’t much conviction. She feels him shift beside her, rolling on to his side. She looks at him sidelong. He has his head propped up on his fist. He puts a hand, warm and heavy, on her middle.

 

“You are perhaps beginning to doubt your plans?”

 

“No,” she snaps.

 

Brief silence. His thumb makes a soothing arc against her belly. “One is permitted to mourn one’s losses.”

 

“Yes,” she says dully.

 

“But some paths are more difficult to divert from than others.”

 

“I'm not — nevermind.”

 

His thumb continues its arc, metronomic. “Who knows, Miss Pryce,” he says after a minute, voice light, musing, “perhaps there will be a use for Miss Madras, after all.”

 

Arihnda turns her head. He is looking at her, considering.

 

“I believe her  _ use  _ will be for the ISB to determine,” she says snappishly.

 

He raises an eyebrow. “Indeed. And you do not intend to have any input into the matter?”

 

She rolls back on to her side, so they are facing each other, and puts her hand on his hip. “What I  _ intend  _ to have an input into, Commander, is the future of Lothal, which I believe was our original topic of discussion.”

 

“Of course, Miss Pryce,” he says, lips twitching. “And you intend to model Lothal’s future on Eriadu, I presume?”

 

She rubs her hand against his hip, moves a little closer to him. “Commander, I believe our mutual plan is to, in your words, advance as far as possible. Is that not correct?”

 

“Indeed it is,” he allows dryly.

 

“Yes. As I was saying earlier, I do not think a  _ glorified supply depot  _ provides a suitable platform for advancement. But a world like Eriadu, a center of trade and industry and politics —”

 

“I thought your homeworld was not, as a general rule, interested in such things.”

 

“People on Lothal aren’t interested in having snide Core world fancy-hats stomping around telling everyone what they’re doing wrong with their lives and what they ought to do instead,” she snaps, the old complaint that she would have thrown at Uvis years ago rising out of her like memory. “But, Commander” she says, slowing her speech a little, relishing the memory of her very successful conversation with Daisie, “I am  _ not _ a Core-worlder.”

 

“No?”

 

“No. And I can choose what hat to wear.”

 

“Indeed.” He settles back on his back, and pulls her towards him. “Tell me what sort of milieu you expect to find on Lothal, and how it differs from the Core, then.”

 

She tells him how Lothal is mostly split between agriculture and industrial mining. Tells him how the Outer Rim, in general, lacks most of the Core’s humanocentrism and social pretensions, tells him how many species there are, living together, working together — how few of her childhood friends had been human at all, although the advancement of COMPNOR’s Education Branch is slowly changing that for other children... She lets that topic trail off, more or less unfinished. He doesn’t add anything to it. 

 

She returns to Lothal’s agricultural and mineral production. She rattles off some basic statistics. She tells him with a pride that surprises even herself, half-remembered as a bit of acting from her time working for Renking and half, strangely, genuine, that Lothal’s miners are some of the hardest workers in the Galaxy, and Lothal’s farms produce some of the highest-quality grain.

 

“The Lothal system should be the breadbasket of the Outer Rim,” she hears herself saying _.  _ “And,” she adds, “with the mineral resources we have, especially Doonium, we ought to be one of the richest planets outside the Core, too. Even more than Eriadu, or Naboo.”

 

“Indeed. I did not realize the Empire was noted for paying fair market value for planetary resources,” he says dryly. “Certainly I did not think that was your experience with your family mine.”

 

Arihnda sits up again. “There  _ are  _ planets that have profited under the Empire.”

 

“Indeed.”

 

“I intend for Lothal to be one of them. Consider that I may have learned from my mistakes with Pryce Mining.”

 

“Indeed,” he says again. He touches her head, moves his hand through her hair. Obviously it is a distraction. “Tell me more about the people, if you would. Your family, perhaps?”

 

She considers saying no, for a moment. Considers picking a fight about Imperial economic policy.

 

Then she puts her head back on his chest, and begins to talk. She tells him that her family had come to the Lothal in the first wave of colonization, under the Old Republic, hundreds of generations ago. That they had been miners from the first. That her father had worked in the mine with his own hands, for a few years, at his father’s insistence, as had his father, and his father’s father — and that she’d been expected to learn most of the machinery and equipment herself, but her father hadn’t insisted… it wasn’t prejudice about her gender, but rather something more idiosyncratic about her childhood. 

 

She moves away from that topic quickly.

 

She tells him about the schooling she’d had, and her classmates. She tells him about playing makeshift games of grav-ball in dusty streets, and about hiking trips taken on holiday to the clay-colored mountains with their high plateaus rising into the crisp air where the cold and the snow seemed to last all year long. 

 

She tells him about sneaking out to the grass plains after dark with her primary school friends on summer nights when the sweet smell of pea-blossom hung heavy in the air, and about the marsh deltas that bordered the capital city where she’d grown up, their banks rich with saltmeadow hay and aster flowers and sea lavender, with rose mallow and glasswort and goldenrod. 

 

She tells him about the birdsong that rose from the switchgrass in spring. She imitates a little of that when he asks how they sounded: peeping whistles and tuneful trills that make him tilt his head at her curiously.

 

She tells him about the sunsets, as rich with oranges and purples and pinks as any evening on Coruscant — and tells him about the way those sunsets had been chased out of her life towards the end of primary school by her mother’s insistence on extra tutoring, though for _ what  _ Arihnda hadn’t understood. There was nothing like an Imperial Academy in her future, no such chances for advancement on a forgotten backwater in the immediate aftermath of the Clone Wars, nothing on Lothal but grass and rocks and sunsets and grav-ball. But her mother, from another planet, had insisted. 

 

Arihnda, who had contracted the virus of ambition early in her teen years and suffered from it ever since, finds herself telling Thrawn how she had grown more and more frustrated — with her mother, with the mine, with her home. When she's found time for sunsets again, after her schooling was complete, once her life consisted entirely of work at the mine, she’d begun to feel frustrated about them, too.

 

Thrawn is silent on the matter of ambition, but he is interested to hear ther her mother is not from Lothal at all. So Arihnda tells him the history of her mother and her mother’s family.

 

Her mother, a staunch believer in the Empire, comes from Eriadu. 

 

Her mother’s mother had been from Corulag, and had relocated to Eriadu with her parents at a young age, when her parents had been sent to keep a close eye on their employer’s investments in the Outer Rim. 

 

Her mother’s father, a gambling type, had been from Corellia. An independent hauler —  _ not,  _ Arihnda tells Thrawn firmly, a smuggler — he’d met Arihnda’s mother’s mother on a long trip to the Outer Rim, and in true Corellian fashion had pronounced himself madly in love and thrown the rest of his life away. 

 

Impulsivity notwithstanding, they'd made a good life, her mother’s parents. Her mother’s mother had become an accountant for the same corporation that had employed her parents, and had eventually spun her knowledge of Eriadian businesses into independent investments of her own. Meanwhile, her mother’s father had found stable work in the shipping company that moved Eriadian minerals to the Core Worlds. It had been dangerous work, but high-paying. He had even survived a few of the pirate queen Qa’nah’s infamous raids, and had eventually been promoted to a position as a security manager for the company’s convoys.

 

When Talmoor Pryce had traveled to Eriadu looking to help his small mine with the kinds of capital that couldn’t be found on Lothal, Arihnda’s mother, a keen student of finance and trade, had seen the small Pryce Mining operation as a good investment.

 

And she’d seen Talmoor as a good investment, too.

 

She’d followed him to Lothal, and turned her prodigious energy and keen mind to the business of growing her husband’s company. She’d done well at it, too. The company, her parents joked, was their first child.

 

Arihnda herself was not so much  _ the second  _ as she was  _ the baby  _ — ever and always their baby, which was why, while she could usually make her parents do anything she wanted, she had never been permitted to go anywhere interesting to do anything remotely dangerous without one or the other of them hovering over her, as if they might lose her as suddenly and unexpectedly as they acquired her.

 

Because Arihnda had been a surprise.

 

Medical care was not always so reliable or inexpensive in the Outer Rim, especially not on poor backwaters like Lothal, and for a while it had seemed to Talmoor and Elainye that they couldn't have children at all, not without the sort of medical intervention that was only available on worlds that were too far away, before the creation of the Empire and the opening of better and more stable hyperspace lanes, and whose services were too expensive for them anyway. After a while, they had given up on trying for a child. 

 

So Arihnda, for her parents as much for so many other people later, had been a surprise. 

 

_ Not,  _ her mother had told her firmly when little Arihnda, eleven or twelve at the time, had begun to understand the issue and question it, an accident or a mistake — but, yes, a surprise. A very happy one, her mother said. Very much wanted, and... 

 

Arihnda trails off. Beside her, Thrawn is very still. Listening. She raises her head to look at him.

 

“What about your family?”

 

He raises an eyebrow. “I do not believe they will provide any insight into Lothal or its future.”

 

She bites her lip. “No, obviously,” she says. “But I was just… curious…”

 

“Marriages are somewhat less impulsive among my people,” he offers flatly. “And most children are carefully planned for.”

 

She doesn’t say anything to that, just looks at his face for a while. Then she asks: “Do you miss them?”

 

For a moment she thinks he won’t answer at all. Then he says, coolly: “Do you miss your home?”

 

She swallows. In truth — in truth, she doesn’t really, although she has found herself missing certain aspects of it as she’d described them to him. The smell of the flowers. The sound of the birdsong. But on the whole, no, she doesn’t miss Lothal. 

 

But she thinks she knows the answer he wants, and she can at least try to get close to it. “I think… I think I’m starting to feel differently about it, than I did.”

 

“Indeed.” His hand is moving along her back, now. “And when are you planning to return?”

 

“I don’t know. I’d like to wait until after we see Bail, whenever that is. Just so I can make sure I’m available for him, when he wants us.”

 

“I see.”

 

“You’re still interested in meeting him, aren’t you?”

 

“Of course.”

 

She puts her head on his chest, again. “Good,” she says. And for a little while, she doesn’t say anything else. And he doesn’t ask anything of her. There doesn’t seem to be anything to say, or anything worth asking — although the space seems more hollow than relaxed. The silence stretches. His hand continues moving absently against her side. Arihnda starts to feel the air against her skin. 

 

Eventually, he says: “I am still curious about Lothal. The culture — philosophy, society, art?” 

 

Arihnda looks up at him, and hesitates. She's certainly caught the inflection on the last word. “I don’t really… I don’t know really know much about art. I mean, there is some, of course, but it’s not like Alderaan. And we haven’t got much in the way of philosophy. But we have… music?” She says it a little hopefully. “Dancing?” she continues. “Food?”

 

Thrawn raises an eyebrow at her, gently. “I see. Tell me about those, then.”

 

So she does. She starts with the music, or tries too. She can sing a little, but not particularly well, and while she has a sense of rhythm, she'd never really appreciated Lothal’s music, and can't call to mind much but children's songs, things her father sang with her when she was little. She does try singing one of them, but finds that it taps a weird wellspring of maudlin emotion that she wants to cap as quickly as possible, so she drops the topic, and Thrawn lets her.

 

She tries describing the food next, and as she does she has the weird experience of finding that she misses some of it quite keenly. 

 

She hasn't eaten anything from home since coming to Coruscant. Some of it is available at cheap hole-in-the-wall street stands on lower levels where enclaves of other Lothalites who had done less well than Daisie live crammed together like rats, but she'd learned to avoid it like she'd learned to avoid so much of her home, out of shame. 

 

She’d already developed a bitter frustration about some of the things her father and his peers considered good living before leaving home, private derision nurtured by the increasing tangibility of Core World culture, the presence of material luxuries and social advancement both hovering just beyond her fingertips, a cruel tease that had accompanied the slow encroach of Imperial trade and authority… but the expansion of the Empire had been very slow indeed on a poor backwater planet like Lothal, and food had never been either here or there in the mix and so had never really become the focus of her ire. But on Coruscant, he'd learned quickly to be embarrassed about the day-to-day fare of her homeworld in the same way she'd learned to be embarrassed about her clothing and her accent and her hairstyle. And just as she'd learned to change her hair and her clothes and her voice, she'd learned to change the way she ate.

 

So it's more than a little strange to find herself craving the things she describes to Thrawn.

 

She describes fist-sized dumplings: stretchy, taupe-colored dough rolled into thin, slippery sheets and formed into pliant packets around spoonfuls of savory orange squash, or filled with pastes made from cheese and sugar, or stuffed with mixtures of onions and potatoes in every shade of orange and yellow and red and with flakes of herbaceous greens and bits of grey, chewy meat flash-fried in pans and then roughly chopped, all of it flavored with earthy spices like dill and caraway. 

 

She talks about the hard, dried peppercorns that came in black and red and green and white and were used to flavor everything, about the white sea salt harvested from salt marsh flats and the pink rock salt that came from the mountains, and the smoked black salt that was sometimes sprinkled on roast meat for very special occasions. 

 

She talks about red tea spiced with anise and white tea spiced with nutmeg, and black tea steeped so strong it was as bitter as dirt, and about salty-sweet butter tea made with black pepper and cloves and honey and served in the deepest chill of the cold season. (Caf, she says, had been a rarity.) 

 

She talks about buckwheat steamed until it was soft and fluffy and served with chunks of fatty meat, marinated and slow-roasted, and about filets of grilled fish. She talks about soft, warm flatbreads that were sometimes made for tearing and scooping at pastes of beans or vegetables, and sometimes made to be stuffed with cheese and fried. She talks about fibrous, chopped, roasted eggplant served with crushed nuts and tangy yogurt, and about thin, fragrant meat-and-vegetable stews that were flavored with bones and cartilage which rendered fatty oils into the broth and were given heat by chilis that grew in startling bright shades of bright red and lively green. 

 

She talks about the sharp local brandies and the citrus-flavored wines served at celebrations where where all manner of shellfish were served piled high on massive platters. 

 

She talks about fruits in all varieties, about sour cherries and lumpy sugar apples with their tough green casings and creamy flesh like thick custard, about crisp honey-apples with papery golden-red skin and flesh that cracked when you bit it and dissolved into liquid as you chewed, about sharp-tasting pomegranates with their flesh like a pile of gems, and about soft, juicy plums -- 

 

She lets her voice trail off.

 

“What about dance?” Thrawn suggests after a moment.

 

“Oh,” she says, “mother mostly wanted me to learn things that were popular in the Core, Calenatas and ballet and that sort of thing, so I didn’t learn much from Lothal, except what we had to do in school. I hardly remember most of it.”

 

“Show me what you do remember.”

 

“Most of it’s meant to be done with a group. Everyone in big circles, that sort of thing.”

 

“Show me your part, then.”

 

“Are you trying to kick me out of bed, Commander?” she asks teasingly.

 

“Trying to appreciate you from a different angle, perhaps,” he says in a matching tone. “Besides, I am sure a short separation will only make me appreciate your presence more when you return.”

 

She laughs at that, and climbs off the bed, and then stands naked and awkward before the foot of it, realizing she doesn’t really remember any native Lothalite dances at all.

 

“I… Well, like I said we’d usually be in a group,” she says, stalling as she tries to summon up a memory of any step she can reproduce, “in a circle, and each of us was sort of supposed to…” She takes a hesitant step forward with her right foot, as if she were stepping forward and to the side at the same time, and raises her arms a little sloppily, elbows bent, then brings her foot back and lowers her arms. “Alright, so that wasn’t... “ She pressed her lips into a thin line. “You have to give me a minute to remember it.”

 

“As much time as you need, of course,” Thrawn says calmly. His face and his voice are both perfectly neutral.

 

“It was a sort of…” She takes the same hesitant step again, her right foot going forward and further right, and then she steps her left foot to meet it. “One,” she says, half to herself, swinging her arms a little ignoring Thrawn, “no, that’s two.” She steps back again. “One,” she says while standing. Then she steps forward and right, “two,” then forward and left, “three,” then back and right, “four,” then back and left to her starting position, completing a sort of sideways V and saying, “one.” She looks down at her feet, then up at a spot on the wall beyond Thrawn’s head. “Right,” she says. “And, hands… One.” She swings her arms up, bending her elbows, not letting them raise much above her shoulders, her hands relaxed, too focused on remembering the motions to be worried about doing them completely unclothed. “Two,” she steps forward and right, swinging her arms down. “Three,” she steps forward and left, swinging her arms up again. “Four,” a backward step to the right, arms coming down. “One,” she finishes, stepping back to her original place and swinging her arms up. Then she lowers them. 

 

“We usually did it with clapping,” she adds after a short moment of considering silence, “when we were old enough to learn to stay in time with the music.” And does the same thing again, twice more, bringing her hands together on the first and third beats to make a sound, beginning to put a twist her upper body as she flows from step to step. She leaves her hands clasped together in the air for a moment at the end. 

 

“I guess I do remember some of it,” she says, letting her hands fall, and looking at him.

 

“Yes, it seems you do,” he says. “Is that all?”

 

She wrinkles her nose at him. “No, but I’m not sure how well I’ll remember the any of the rest of it. I can find you holos, though.”

 

“I can find holos as well, I am sure,” he says a little wryly -- a wan sort of wryness that makes her feel a little guilty. He holds out a hand. “I see you are not so eager to continue, anyway.”

 

She tilts her head and frowns, then climbs back onto the bed and crawls to him, and over him, on all fours, ignoring his outstretched hand, which he brings to rest on her ribs while she’s still moving.

 

Still frowning at him, she perches his chest, like the first night — which is somehow far more distant in experienced time than actual time — and reaches out to touch his face, lightly brushing her fingers along the ridges of his brows and the protrusions of his cheekbones. “I’m perfectly eager to continue with other things, Commander,” she says, as gently as she’s ever said anything. She runs a finger down the length of his nose, then bends low and kisses him. “If you’re amenable to showing me a little more gratitude, that is,” she adds, practically speaking into his mouth.

 

He looks at her long enough to make her certainty waver, and then slides a hand along her cheek and into her hair, and raises his head enough to kiss her. “Let us see what we can accomplish,” he murmurs.

 

She practically collapses against him, happier than she would have expected to be off the topic of Lothal, of her family, of childhood memories that are uniformly pleasant and that she nevertheless almost always chooses not to think about. 

 

The little tour of her memories has brought up a kind of melancholy in her, a sense of things missing from herself and her life. And she’s feeling another kind of melancholy, too, from the moments throughout the evening where she’s glimpsed — or thinks she’s glimpsed — an unhappiness in Thrawn that she cannot reach. But he seems, in spite of the teasing tone between them, to sense her mood.

 

Or at least she thinks he might be behaving as if he does.

 

He begins by rolling them over, and kissing her face, softly, and then her neck: little kisses, placed carefully. He pushes himself up on to his knees and forearms, hovers over her, moves his mouth down the length of her body. He lets her dissuade him from sliding his fingers or his tongue between her legs. He is receptive and obliging when she asks if they can, please, just fuck. He pulls her legs around his hips, pushes his cock inside her, again without asking. It bothers her a little less. He’s not the hardest he’s been, but he’s hard enough to manage the job. He lowers his mouth to her breast, and she runs her fingers through his hair and whispers  _ thank you,  _ and he rocks his hips into her and moves his mouth up her chest, and up her neck, and cups her face, and kisses her. She tugs on one of his ears as he does; he makes a low, not entirely pleased sound at her and sits back onto his knees, and hooks his hands under her knees and pushes her legs back, and moves his hips slowly, sliding himself in and out of her. She reaches up and puts her hands on his forearms, lets her head loll back into the mattress, closes her eyes, and lets herself relax and do nothing beyond making noise. She is more object than actor again, but his actions are exactly what she’d wanted, and she is happy simply to enjoy the feeling of him for a while.

 

After a few minutes, each of which she enjoys quite thoroughly, he pulls out of her, and she opens her eyes. “Turn over,” he says. It’s not unkind, but almost, somehow, perfunctory.

 

She rolls over, and gets onto her hands and knees, and he pushes himself inside of her again, again without asking. “Do this for me, for a minute,” he says softly.

 

“What?” she turns her head to the side a little.

 

“You move for me, for a minute.”

 

“Oh,” she says. Not something she’s done very often, or enjoyed very much, but she supposes she can try. She rocks forward and back a little, then lowers her weight to her elbows and forearms and tries again.

 

“Come back more,” he murmurs, pulling on her hips.

 

And that’s fine, although the longer swing in her body is a little less comfortable. She gets back up onto her hands to make it easier.

 

Or at least, it’s fine for a little while. She feels him hardening inside her as she moves, and feels her own breathing coming harder, and she gets back onto her forearms, just for a minute, just for comfort, and sways her back, and, quite by accident, finds a stroke that feels extremely good. She moans, half a sigh, and tries to hit it again. She tilts her hips and tries again. He’s very hard, and the movement she’s making feels almost the best of anything they’ve done all night — and then he grabs her hips and pulls her back again —

 

“Stop that,” she says.

 

“What?”

 

“Stay still,” she says. “Stay still for a minute.” She drops her head low and bends her back, belly curved low, shifts her weight a little on her elbows, and finds the good stroke again. 

 

He puts his hands on her hips. 

 

“Don’t,” she says, warningly. 

 

“You like this,” he says. It is almost a question.

 

“Mm, yes.” She tries to focus a little more on speaking. “Don’t you want me to?”

 

“Yes.” He brushes his hands softly against her lower back, as if he’s getting ready to pull her back again, and he thrusts his hips forward to meet her.

 

“Stay  _ still _ ,” she growls at him.

 

“You are making that difficult.”

 

“Have a little -” she almost loses the smooth motion, tilts her hips and finds it again - “ah -  _ patience _ .”

 

He laughs at that. “You are making that difficult, as well.”

 

“Do you want us to turn back over?” She wouldn’t entirely mind that. As much as she’s enjoying using his cock to tease herself, not building towards an orgasm, but creating a steady supply of steady pleasure, there is a limit to how long she wants to be the one doing most of the work.

 

“Soon,” he says.

 

“Mm, well — stay still until we do.”

 

He laughs again at that, says “Of course,” and touches her back once more, and leaves his hands there.

 

She stretches her back up, arched, for a second, and then drops her belly, back swayed, and sighs and goes back to her rhythm.

 

He only lasts a few minutes more, hips jerking occasionally, which makes her snap at him to  _ keep still  _ or  _ stop that _ , before he grabs her hips and stops her moving.

 

“Turn over,” he murmurs.

 

And for the first time that evening, his saying so sounds heavy with desire. The tone of his voice carries Arihnda forward on a sudden rush of eagerness.

 

She crawls away from him just a little and flops onto her back, reaching for him as he lowers himself over her. He hooks his elbows under her knees, and the weight of his upper body pushes her legs up and back as he leans over her. He shifts his weight onto one hand just long enough to reach between them and settle himself into her, again without asking first — but this time it doesn’t bother her at all. 

 

“Good?” he asks when he’s fully inside of her, leaning the weight of his body onto her. 

 

“Mmhm,” she says, nodding. She lays her hands on his head and looks at his face. “Good,” she says.

 

He looks at her a moment longer before saying “Good” softly back to her. Another moment of looking, as if deciding something, and then he leans down and kisses her cheek. “Good,” he says again, and something in his tone makes her heart swell. He drops his head to the crook of her neck and starting to move his hips. “Good,” he breathes against her skin.

 

She folds her arms around him and whispers “Good,” back to him as he moves, whispers it over and over, a breathy, keening chant that doubles as encouragement and demand, and rises in intensity with him and with the feeling he gives her, until it crests into wordlessness.

 

Then silence, breathing. The warm weight of his body on top of her. The opportunity, brief though it is, to hold him. 

 

Then he disentangles his arms from her legs, and pushes himself up. She lets him go, slowly, and opens her eyes. 

 

He is looking at her, observant, unspeaking. She takes a few more breaths, then says: “Thank you for that.”

 

“It was no trouble.” He pushes back, and up, and climbs off the bed. “I need the fresher, if you will give me a moment.”

 

“Of course.”

 

He is gone for several minutes, emerges having showered. It seems like a good idea. She heaves herself off the bed, feeling a little stiff, and passes him. “I need a minute, too,” she says.

 

“Of course.”

 

She takes perhaps a few minutes more than she needs.

 

When she emerges, he is back in the bed. The cover, and all its attendant mess, are rolled down to the foot of the bed. The sheet is around his hips. There are several pillows behind him. He is —

 

“Is that my data pad?”

 

“It is,” he says. “I trust you do not mind my borrowing it.”

 

She frowns. “No, I suppose not.” It’s not really that that’s stopped her, so much as the strange, almost unnerving domesticity of the scene -- unnerving not because it is unpleasant, but because it’s altogether too comfortable. “What are you reading?”

 

“Headlines from the holonet news. It is useful to be able to understand what others may reference in conversation.” He sets the datapad aside, reaching a long arm out to set it on a bedside table, and turns his attention to her.

 

She makes no move to return to the bed.

 

“Would you like me to leave?” he asks after a few minutes of silence. She can’t read his tone.

 

“No,” she says, crossing the room briskly as if to make up for the awkward moment. “I was just looking at you.”

 

“Oh? What did you think?” He holds out a hand to her, and she takes it as she crawls onto the bed, and settles beside him.

 

“I thought you looked quite good.”

 

His mouth twitches: almost a smile. “Flattering,” he says. It sounds like a joke.

 

For a moment they sit in silence.

 

Then she says: “I don’t think I’m tired enough to fall asleep.”

 

“I did not realize we had a schedule.”

 

“Oh, no — no, just…” She chews her lip. “Should I tell you more about Lothal?”

 

He is silent for a minute, then says: “You may if you wish, but I expect you do not want to. May I make a suggestion?”

 

“Of course, Commander.”

 

“Lay down for a little while, and be silent, and let us see what happens.”

 

She’s a little skeptical of that, too, but it seems as fine an idea as anything.

 

What happens is that he picks up the datapad again, and continues reading the news, and for a little while they talk about that, but she finds it boring, and eventually, after she decides that she doesn’t need to make conversation after all, she slides under the sheet and nestles into his side.

 

And shortly after that sleep makes its own space around her.

 

~*~

 

Sometime later, at an odd, hour she wakes feeling lost and overheated, and the confusion of her sensations resolves into a hand on her face, into the low red glow of eyes which cast just enough light to let her know that he is frowning, and into sound of his voice, low and soft and gentle: “Arihnda?”

 

She frowns, trying to clear her head. Surely she hasn’t heard  _ that _ correctly. “What?” she says. Her voice feels weird in her mouth, like the syllables are the wrong shape, as if the sharp edges she'd worked so hard to craft had been rubbed away by warmth and sleep. She tries again, and this time her accent feels more correct: “What?” 

 

His hand stiffens against her face. Sounding serious and almost uncertain, he says: “Are you awake?”

 

“Mm,” she says, shaking herself a little, starting to sit up. “Yes, I’m awake.”

 

He takes his hand off her face, sits up, doesn’t say anything. She has the sense he is still frowning.

 

“I’m awake, Commander,” she says again, more clearly. “Is something wrong?”

 

“No,” he says, but she can practically hear him frowning.

 

“What happened?”

 

The light of his eyes moves. He is shaking his head. “Nothing.”

 

“Commander —”

 

“You were dreaming, I believe, Miss Pryce. Go back to sleep.”

 

She doesn’t move. After a minute, though, he does: he settles onto his side and pulls her close until she is folded against him, and he is wrapped around her.

 

“Sleep,” he says, sounding faintly annoyed, though with her or with himself is unclear.

 

And she is too tired to puzzle it out. After a few minutes, her confusion melts back into unconsciousness.

 

~*~

 

When she wakes again, it is a much more regular and comfortable process.

 

She is feeling a little cramped, and overly warm, but not unbearably so.

 

There is a body wrapped around her. Thrawn. So he is still there. Still very real. His leg is over her hip, his arms around her neck and her middle, his face against the back of her head, his breath warm on her skin.

 

And his cock is erect, pressing against her thigh.

 

Which strikes her fuzzy, sleep-fogged mind as not entirely a bad thing. 

 

Between her legs she feels a hot, wet ache: not pain, but desire, which has become a normal state of affairs for her in the mornings.

 

She half-turns into him, trying to see if he is at all awake.

 

He is, if only barely. Which is fine, as she herself is only barely thinking.

 

She says good morning, or rather, murmurs it. He makes a sound that is probably a similar greeting. And that is all the talking they do, or all the talking she remembers. What happens next doesn’t require much talking, anyway. 

 

When it’s over he takes a few heavy breaths against her shoulder: kisses her there, almost perfunctory. He takes another few deep, event breaths, then kisses her shoulder again, lingering and much less perfunctory. He rises from the bed a moment later.

 

She rolls onto her back, making a kind of questioning sound, and lifts her head to watch him. He has his back to her, is headed towards the fresher, is stretching his arms up over his head as he walks. 

 

He vanishes into the fresher before her mind can form anything like a statement. She watches the door for a moments, then decides he will probably be a little while, decides to watch the ceiling instead.

 

He emerges from the fresher obviously showered, and heads directly to the place where they’d discarded his uniform the night before. “Certainly not an objectionable way to begin the day,” he says casually, in passing, as he nears the bed.

 

“No,” she says slowly, sitting up and watching him dress. 

 

He dons his uniform, which appears to have survived the evening in reasonably good shape, without any apparent interest in her, her condition, or feelings.

 

And she's not sure, entirely, what she thinks of that, and she spends her time watching him, frowning, trying to decide if this is upsetting or not.

 

Once he is dressed, however, and before she has reached a conclusion, he turns his full attention back to her. She can feel the shift — which is more than just the turn of his head and the direction of his gaze — like a physical thing that envelops her. He gives her an appraising look for a short minute, and then crawls onto the bed, boots and all, takes her face in his hands, and kisses her.

 

Her mouth doesn’t taste particularly pleasant even to herself, but he doesn’t seem to mind. The kiss goes on rather longer than she expects, but she doesn’t object to that. When it’s over, he leaves his face close to hers and says, softly: “Nor an objectionable way to spend the night.”

 

“No,” she agrees, “not at all.”

 

Still holding her face with both hands, he asks: “How are you?”

 

It seems, somehow, like a loaded question.

 

“Fine,” she says, almost sounding defensive, and definitely sounding unsure.

 

He narrows his eyes. “Are you?” 

 

And it occurs to her that she might have a guess what this is about. “Yes, Commander. I didn’t mind the extra… vigor.”

 

He raises an eyebrow. “No?”

 

“No. And I'm not hurt.”

 

He doesn't answer that directly, but he kisses her again: her forehead, this time. “You will let me know when, precisely, you are going to Lothal?” he asks.

 

“Of course,” she says.

 

Another kiss. Her cheek, this time. “Good. And you will let me know when Senator Organa finds time for us.”

 

“Of course.”

 

Then he takes his hands off her face, and takes himself off the bed, and for a moment it seems he is going to leave without further comment. Then he stands still a moment, looks at her, and says: “I will speak with you later.”

 

And as he leaves, as she hugs her knees to her chest and watches him leave, she feels the good feeling  _ partner, partner, partner  _ thudding her chest.

 

~*~

 

The good feeling becomes, steadily, the metronymic beat in the background of her days.

 

Bail calls, pushes back their meeting again. Once again, it hardly seems to matter. She will find time to visit Lothal. She still has more than three months. 

 

She lays groundwork for her trip, carefully. She calls her family’s oldest, closest friends. She lounges in her bed in the hotel and chats. (Bail pushes back their meeting again. She still has three months.) When people express wonder that she wants to know how things are back home she claims homesickness. Yes, yes, she says, she's surprised about it too. Coruscant’s just very different. It was exciting for a while, but — 

 

Well, yes, she says when she has them hooked, she might come visit. She isn't sure when. (Bail pushes back their meeting again. She still has almost three months.) If she did visit, would it — Yes, she’d  _ love _ to come say hello in person, thank you  _ so _ much for the invitation.

 

She settles into a rhythm, like this. Her days are dominated by High Skies, her evenings by calls to Lothal, and in the spaces that are hers alone, she has Thrawn. She has him by comm link and holo, although not, through one scheduling mishap or another, in person. Still, she has him. She tells him more about Lothal, about the things she’s learning from her calls. She talks through what she knows of Imperial policy in the Outer Rim, as well. He doesn't offer much in the way of opinion on most of it, but he asks a great many questions. And when she grows weary of answering his questions, he is usually amenable about being redirected towards more pleasant topics of conversation which, strangely, revolve mostly around her childhood memories.

 

And he is always amenable to being told how much she looks forward to seeing him again. She is indeed very much looking forward to seeing him again, which feels good in and of itself: looking forward with enjoyment, full of easy trust that he will come back and confidence that good things will happen when he does. Things feel, somehow, normal.

 

And then Yularen’s sniffer program yields fruit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. before y'all yell at me i eschewed Star Wars canon food references favor of more earthly, or just slightly askew of earthly, flavors I actually know because "nonsense food words that don't tell me what it tastes like" is one of my biggest SFF pet peeves  
> 2\. i swear this thing as a plot and i swear we are getting to it


	9. An Attitude of Service, Part 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to the real Coruscant.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, uh, remember how the Empire legalized slavery? Yeah. While our leads are on the right side of the issues, this chapter comes with a VERY STRONG WARNING for sexual violence: trafficking, non-consent, and underage.

_The greater the man, the less is he opinionative, he depends upon events and circumstances. — Napoleon Bonaparte_

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Arihnda is full of good feeling when she arrives at the Arcology for a meeting which Yularen has, quite at the last minute, insisted she attend.

 

She doesn't really think it's the best use of her time; if she's going to tell Driller she's “working offsite,” she’d rather spend the hours continuing to prepare for her still-unscheduled trip to Lothal. But she will have the chance to see Thrawn in person for the first time in three weeks, and even if it is in the company of other people, and the prospect fills her with a lovely, muted hum of joy.

 

Her mood is good enough, apparently, to catch to eye of a lean, sharp-eyed Naval officer who deviates minutely from his path to fall into step beside her. She ignores him at first, following the little red marker on the holomap projected by the handheld mini-navicomp issued to visitors. Deviation from the map triggers security protocols. So do excessive delays in travel speed.

 

The Naval officer keeps pace with her.

 

“Not many civilians come into the Arcology smiling,” he says with obviously practiced offhandedness. He is eyeing her in a feral sort of way as they walk. There is something familiar about his look, something that strikes a chord within her, like the sensation of hearing one’s own voice in an echo, or seeing one’s reflection only slightly distorted in smooth, dark water.

 

He is looking at her with an expression that conveys the same feeling Arihnda herself generally has about things that she wants.

 

And for the first time in her life, as a direct consequence of what she has been doing with Thrawn and how it has made her feel about herself, her response to being so openly, almost rapaciously assessed is a happy surge of pure and purely entertained confidence.

 

“Perhaps I’m here to see someone I like,” she says, throaty voice laced with gently restrained laughter.

 

“Oh? Who’s that?”

 

“Colonel Yularen,” she says lightly, as if she didn't know the weight of his name.

 

The officer’s steps hitch just a fraction, and Arihnda suppresses a laugh. “A very likeable man,” he says, recovering his pace. “I can show you a faster route than that,” he adds, gesturing at the holomap.

 

“Oh?” asks Arihnda. “Do you know him well? Visit his office often?”

 

“Once a week at least,” says the officer, dangerous ease written in his thin smile. “I like to think I know all his guests.”

 

“Well,” says Arihnda lightly, “maybe he’ll introduce us.”

 

The officer’s comm makes an urgent little noise just as he is opening his mouth, and he stops. “Maybe he will,” he says with distracted, only vaguely avaricious courtesy. And then he seems to remember his manners, and he turns his attention back to her for a moment. He favors her again with his thin smile, an expression borrowed from a carnivorous scavenger. “I hope to see you again.”

 

Arihnda gives him a smile of her own, rich with the uncomplicated boldness and straightforward good feeling of knowing herself to be desired by someone she desires in turn, and finding this man’s interest merely ironic by comparison. “Likewise,” she says, suppressing a laugh.

 

Her good mood lasts the rest of the trip to Yularen’s office, but survives only about the first five minutes of the meeting.

 

There are four of them in Yularen’s office: Yularen, of course, Thrawn and Vanto, the latter of whom Arihnda suspects will become a regular presence at meetings like this should she have to endure many more of them, and Arihnda herself.

 

And Arihnda is feeling quite patronized, listening to Vanto describe what he’s done with the data she’s supplied. It doesn’t matter that it’s reasonably impressive; it only matters that sitting primly on the couch hearing the fruits of her work discussed merely as raw material for someone else’s contributions has set her stewing. That and...

 

That, and the fact that if Thrawn, sitting an arm’s length away from her on the couch, is aware of her mood, he doesn’t give any indication.

 

In fact, Thrawn hasn't given much indication of being aware of her at all, which does not remotely match her expectations. She hadn’t thought the past three weeks had indicated any sort of problem between them: they'd talked every day, two or three times most days, quite pleasantly, but he'd been obsessively immersed in simulation and testing and data from some of his more interesting ship modifications, a condition with which she sympathized, and she’d been _so_ busy bringing herself up to date on Lothal — the days had just slipped by. It had all seemed fine. She hadn’t felt like there was any _distance_ between them.

 

Perhaps he's playing professional for Yularen's benefit? Or Vanto’s? But she rather thinks Yularen knows they have at least a bit closer of a rapport than this, even if he doesn't know how close. And whatever else bothers her about Vanto, she’s certain he wouldn't make trouble for Thrawn about his personal relations even if he might disapprove of them.

 

“I compared the records from Higher Skies with the data Colonel Yularen’s investigators were able to gather,” Vanto is saying, “and I see why you weren’t able to trace the money any further than you did,” he says, shifting his attention minutely to Arihnda. She sees that he’s making an effort to be both polite and professional, so she makes the same effort back, giving him polite office-politic attention. “You did a good job with it, by the way,” he adds.

 

Arihnda swallows a sudden wave of bile. That it was clearly, obviously unintentionally patronizing is hardly the point. She’d still rather like to claw off a chunk of his face for that comment.

 

“Nightswan, or his people,” Vanto goes on, turning his attention back to the data terminal at which Yularen is peering with interest, “always break up the trail with a deposit at a credit transfer service. That’s where your traces always ran out,” Vanto adds distractedly, glancing briefly at Arihnda again.

 

She bites down forcefully on the impulse to snarl _yes, I know._ Like she hadn’t checked for something as simple as the business registration of the each of transfer points in the chains of transactions she'd built, and like she hadn’t cross-checked _those_ to make sure they weren’t falsified — and like she hadn’t gone digging as best she could when it seemed they _were_ false. Like she couldn’t form a _basic thought_ about intelligence gathering.

 

“I haven’t found a pattern to their choice of transfer services yet,” Vanto says, peering at the data terminal again, “and they’ve never repeated one. But from what we do have, it looks to me looks like one person deposits the credits on a scrubbed data card at the first point in the chain with instructions for the first transfer, someone else makes an electronic routing transfer from that second account in the chain to the next, and then someone else for the next, and so on, until they’re rolled over into Driller’s slush pile.”

 

“Yes,” says Yularen, “the additional records we’ve pulled in so far seem to bear that out.” Then Yularen claps Vanto on the shoulder, avuncular, and says: “Very well done, Ensign,” with real approval and perhaps a bit of pride.

 

Vanto’s cheeks color. “Thank you, sir,” he says a little awkwardly.

 

“The diversity of financial institutions present in the records implies quite a large network,” says Thrawn.

 

“Yes,” says Yularen, mood darkening, “it does indeed.”

 

“The size of the deposits isn’t anything to sneeze at, either,” says Vanto.

 

“No,” says Yularen, “but it’s the size of the network that worries me more. We’re hoping, Arihnda,” he continues, shifting focus, “that we might lean on you a little more heavily to help pry it apart.”

 

She gives him what she hopes is a well-mannered, helpful sort of look, one that doesn’t betray any of the sharp frustration she feels. “Of course, Colonel,” she says, inclining her head slightly. “What do you need?”

 

“The sniffer program you planted for us lit up like Core Square on Ascension Day last night,” Yularen says. “Our analysts traced the string of deposits back to a transfer service here on Coruscant. They’re never used one so close. We’re hoping you can ask a few well-placed questions to Driller or your colleagues, figure out what the connection might be. Does one of your colleagues live nearby? That sort of thing. Anything that might give us a better lead on any of the people involved in the transactions, maybe let us snap up someone at the periphery of the operation without disturbing the whole web. And I'd like you to take a pass at the footage from the other transactions, to see if you recognize anyone or anything there.”

 

“Of course,” she says, heart suddenly fluttering with quiet excitement, her irritations with both Thrawn and Vanto forgotten. Certainly this is all quite the vote of confidence, she thinks. She'd done well to ask Yularen to breakfast, to let him get to know her a little.

 

“Excellent. I’ll queue up a copy at a terminal for you. We only just got it in today, you know; the pool’s barely touched it. Maybe you’ll catch something first.” He smiles, almost a fond grin, like he knows how much she’d like to show up a whole clutch of ISB analysts. “We can order in lunch from wherever you like,” he adds. “There’s quite a lot of footage.”

 

Arihnda smiles, a sharp, toothy thing. “How about the Pinnacle?”

 

Yularen laughs. “Well, maybe not anywhere. Even my budget isn’t unlimited, pirate holonet broadcasts to the contrary.”

 

And now it is Arihnda’s turn to laugh, politely. “What about something from the Arcology mess, then? I’m sure you have one.”

 

“Indeed we do,” says Yularen. “Several. All quite good if I do say so myself. I’ll order something once you’re set up. You don’t mind moving to another room?”

 

“Of course not,” says Arihnda, still politely.

 

Yularen has politely ushered Vanto out of the desk chair and is punching something into the data terminal before him.

 

“Out of curiosity,” says Arihnda, “where was the transfer service located?”

 

“Not far from your office, actually,” says Yularen distractedly, “just a few levels down.”

 

“Level forty-one twenty,” Vanto adds.

 

Arihnda feels her face go blank, feels her breath catch, her body freeze. _No._ Her palms are suddenly beginning to sweat. _It’s not possible — too coincidental_ . She looks over at Thrawn, who has tilted his head to the side just enough to observe her. He betrays neither excessive interest, nor an excessively disinterested coldness. She takes a slow, shaking breath, expels it just as slowly. _Too coincidental… not coincidental at all?_

 

“Is there something you wish to share?” Thrawn asks softly.

 

“Juahir —” the name is out of her mouth before she can think. Then she snaps her mouth shut, and and shakes her head, staring at Thrawn. Level forty-one twenty. It _can't_ be true. It's simply too awful, even for Juahir.

 

“Tell us,” Thrawn says gently, turning more fully to her, putting an arm on the back of the couch as he does, fingers creeping towards her as if he means — or wants — to touch her.

 

She shakes her head again, as if she could undo the thought, and feels herself withdraw into her body just a little, like she's ready to slide away from him, like all her secrets are bound up together and unraveling a portion of even one will undo the rest completely — or like speaking this awful thing aloud will make it true.

 

“Whatever it is, tell us,” says Yularen, a little more firmly than Thrawn. “We’ll decide if it’s relevant or not.”

 

She turns her sharp gaze on the older man, but while his presence has the weight of accustomed authority, he looks more warm — welcoming and familial, interested and concerned — than stern and commanding. Arihnda takes another, steady breath, but finds it’s harder to find the words than she would have expected.

 

“I was just reminded of something — it happened a few months after I started at Higher Skies, just before I started training at Yinchom.” She’s not entirely sure if it’s the most relevant, or even correct, context, but it probably is. She’s not thinking as clearly as she’d like. In the back of her mind, she can feel…

 

“I was working late,” she tries again. “It happened a lot, _happens_ a lot, reading mostly —” _I noticed you in my reading,_ she thinks, looking at Thrawn, and although the things she’d felt seeing his name and rank then have nothing to do with the things she feels now, for a moment the overactive churning in the back of her mind slows anyway, as if the tether of his presence is enough to steady her even in her memories. She goes on. “I stayed a little too late.” The churning in the back of her mind begins to spool up again, the feeling of… “After sunset. The rowdies —”

 

She has to take another breath, and she feels herself frowning, face screwing up with anger. Anger at herself, more than anything else. She hadn’t thought it was so frightening when it happened, had she? Hadn’t she been less afraid than this, leaving the office? Hadn’t she had herself together, more or less, through the whole ordeal? She hasn’t allowed herself to think about it since, not once, but surely this reaction on her own part is excessive.

 

The other three are silent.

 

She definitely does not want to see their faces.

 

She takes another breath, and continues. “It was after dark. I lived in a safe neighborhood, on an upper level. I’d moved in with Juahir after taking the job at Higher Skies. It was a short commute, and…” She feels like she’s rambling. “I went to the nearest turbolift, the same one I always took, always, and…” She takes another, still more tightly controlled breath. In the back of her mind she can feel the rush of the descent, the sense of a bottomless plunge, of freefall, of tightly-leashed terror working its way closer and closer to full-fledged panic as each successive level flickered by, the illusion of the lift plunging faster, faster, faster as she’d dragged her finger over the control panel trying to get it to stop anywhere, _anywhere_ above the perma-twilight of the lower levels, the panic that had only been moderated, not abated, by calling Juahir, the sense that she herself was powerless to _do_ anything, and —

 

“Arihnda?”

 

She turns her head sharply to look at the speaker. It is Yularen, his brows knit with concern.

 

“Apologies, Colonel,” she says brusquely. “Let me get to the point.” And she does, in clipped sentences disconnected from herself and her feelings, words that convey only the bare minimum of fact. “The lift malfunctioned. It went down, it wouldn’t stop. It stopped at level forty-one twenty. Juahir and Ottlis rescued me.”

 

There is a moment of silence. Then Vanto says, without malice and with a little confusion: “Rescued?”

 

She blinks at him, as if she had forgotten he was present. Her hands are balled into tight fists in her lap. In her mind’s eye, she sees eight men closing in around her while her attention darts between them and everything else, looking for any escape.

 

She’d had no idea she that remembered them so clearly. Each face, and the voice of the one who’d spoken, one of the ones with a heavy chain in his hands, a weapon meant for her: _Hey, sweets..._

 

She clears her throat. “Rowdies,” she says crisply, by way of explanation. “I commed Juahir, I told her where I was. I had a little run-in with some rowdies before she got there, but nothing too dramatic. She was there before — she was very timely, that’s all.”

 

There is a long silence after that. Then Thrawn speaks: “Given your reaction to learning of the transfer service’s location, I infer you are now wondering if Miss Madras’ timeliness was less a matter of efficiency and luck, and more a matter of pre-planning?”

 

Arihnda works her jaw for a moment, then swallows. Adrenaline and spit. “I did wonder that for a minute, yes.”

 

Another exchange of glances between the men in the room. She grinds her teeth together, and blows a breath out through her nose.

 

Thrawn turns his attention back to her. “And what purpose would Miss Madras have had in planning such an event?”

 

“I don’t know,” Arihnda snaps. Then she takes a loud breath, masters herself. “I don’t know,” she tries again. “And I don’t know that she did, and I agree it sounds extremely far-fetched. But if you’d told me a year ago that Driller was the head of an intelligence-gathering cell for a Rebel network, I would have laughed aloud in your face, I think.” She sighs. “It’s just made everything difficult to trust.” For a second, none of them speak. Then, speculatively, Arihnda says: “I used to think Driller sounded insane when he talked about Imperial conspiracies. I thought he was just, I don’t know, rather overzealous, I suppose, in his belief in the policies he advocated for. And he is overzealous — just not in the ways that I thought. And some of the things he talked about that sounded insane to me…” She frowns thoughtfully. “Some of them have turned out to be true.”

 

“Such as?” Yularen is raising an eyebrow, looking at her as a worried parent or grandparent might look at a child who is starting to sound unstable and unwell.

 

Arihnda huffs a little. “It’s nothing outlandish, Colonel. It’s perfectly clear in the data: the Empire’s mining acquisitions are a great deal more aggressive, and more regularly patterned, than it might appear at first blush. And they’re related to Nightswan’s activity. It’s Driller’s main obsession, you know — mining interests. It’s his obsession because it’s Nightswan’s obsession, and it’s why he hired me.”

 

She turns her attention back to Thrawn, and goes on as if Yularen hadn’t asked her anything at all. “I don’t know that Juahir did anything. Maybe it was just a freak accident, and good luck that she was with Ottlis, and that she got there when she did. Or maybe it was to soften me up for a recruitment pitch for their real business, and she’s been playing too long a con and got beat to the punch, or maybe she changed her mind about me. I’ve no idea. I’m not saying what happened was anything particular. I’m just saying I was reminded of it, and what with things as they are, I find myself wondering.”

 

Thrawn looks at her consideringly and finally says: “That is understandable.” Then he glances at Yularen. “Perhaps we should set Miss Pryce to work on the footage, while we decide our course of action?”

 

“I agree, Commander,” says Yularen, looking at Arihnda thoughtfully. Then he says to her, in what is obviously a snap decision: “Come sit here. The rest of us can go down to the analyst pool for some of this.”

 

She exchanges only one other glance with Thrawn as he’s leaving with Yularen and Vanto, before she begins to spool through the security cam footage Yularen’s analysts have compiled for him… and she’s not at all sure what to make of his expression.

 

~*~

 

Watching the footage is like watching a sabacc game: the same general structure repeats over and over, and within it Arihnda’s keen eyes search for the little details that hold the truth about a person. At some point, a nameless personage delivers a tray of food to her. She eats mechanically, without tasting much. She keeps watching the footage. She doesn’t see anything that jogs her memory.

 

But watching the footage again, and again, and again, a meditative exercise that keeps her mind off of both Juahir and Thrawn, she does see a pattern emerge, one that jolts her so hard she sits bolt upright in her seat when it rises into clarity before her.

 

Then she runs back the transaction where the obvious had resolved itself like a child’s optical puzzle and watches it again. And again. And again, until she has the template memorized. Then she runs the footage back to the very start and watches the first transaction, and the second, and the third, through on to the end, pattern-matching within each one, running the footage back to double check, triple check, each time she sees it.

 

“Colonel,” she says with muted excitement when Yularen re-enters the room, Thrawn and Vanto in tow, “I believe I may have found something. Would you care to take a look for me?”

 

Yularen pauses fractionally mid-step, then crosses the room to stand behind her, saying “Of course” as he leans over her shoulder.

 

She tries to rein in the thrumming excitement in her chest as best she can, to sound measured and skeptical and professional.

 

But she knows she’s right about what she’s about to say.

 

“Here —” she scans back to the scene where she’d first seen it, this thing that’s caught her eye, “I don’t think the customers you’re searching for are related to the transactions at all. Watch.” She plays the transaction, runs it back. “Watch the teller.” She plays it again. “Did you see it? Watch once more.” She runs it back, plays it again.

 

“What am I supposed to be seeing?”

 

“He’s executing two transactions. One from the customer, and then one he’s noted for himself on — I think it’s a bit of flimsiplast tucked into the data console just — look —” she runs the footage back and forth over the pertinent moment, pointing as she does — “just there. Did you see it?”

 

Yularen is leaning closer to the image. “Play it again,” he says. He frowns while he watches. “Yes, I think I see it.”

 

“It happens in every case,” Arihnda says, as if she’s following an internal script. “Watch.” She runs the footage back to the start, plays the first transaction. “There.” She slows the image, runs it back, plays again, pointing again. “Different teller, different credit service, different sector, same trick. See? And again,” she says, running forward to the next example, “and again.”

 

“Yes,” says Yularen again, “yes, I see it. I’ll have our analysts confirm it — I’m sure it’s what you say. How did you notice that?”

 

Arihnda spins idly through the footage, replaying the first transaction where she’d noticed the trick again, mostly for her own enjoyment. “When I worked at the Proam Avenue Citizen’s Assistance Office, we had to process a service ticket with each client interaction.” She runs the footage back over the moment of her inspiration, again. “It’s not so different from the transactions they’re executing here. You’ll notice some of the clips have the entire preceding or entire subsequent transaction included.” She runs the footage back again. “There’s a clear contrast, or at least you’d see one if you’ve done any of this sort of repetitive, customer-based data-entry before, I think.”

 

“It’s got to be easier to scoop up a few of the tellers than to hunt down the customers, right?” asks Eli, who has also edged in behind her.

 

Arihnda twists her neck around and sees that his is peering with interest at the footage. There’s nothing competitive in the way he’s offered his observation. He is genuinely, is seems, wrapped up on the problem — which is as it should be, she supposes.

 

“Yes, very much so,” says Yularen say to Vanto, straightening up. “This is very helpful, Arihnda.”

 

“Thank you,” she says smoothly. She’s about wrestled her excitement under control, and she’s got her manners properly in place enough that being thanked doesn’t quite feel like being condescended to. “Unfortunately I didn’t notice anything else —”

 

“That’s quite alright,” Yularen says. He exchanges a glance with Thrawn. “I think that’s enough for today.”

 

“I will escort Miss Pryce out, Colonel,” Thrawn says, finally speaking.

 

“Thank you, Commander,” says Yularen. It has the feel of a well-rehearsed play. Clearly they are going to discuss this case, or something related, further, without her. So much for including her in their meeting seethes silently — but she decides it will be better not to make an issue of it until she and Thrawn are alone together, in the suite she has begun to think of quite unselfconsciously as _hers._

 

So Thrawn sees her out: escorts her from Yularen’s office, guiding her through the door with a gentle touch against her back, and then through the Arcology out to the open air and waits with her in the open-air landing bay until she hails an airspeeder. They don’t draw many looks or, presumably, generate much gossip: officers from every service are common sights at the Arcology, whose operations cross-cut through Imperial bureaucracy, and non-humans, who bring special knowledge or special skills, are more common here as well. That, and Thrawn carries himself like he is escorting a witness, or informant, which Arihnda supposes in a sense she is.

 

They talk a little, in hushed tones, but it is all questions from him, and all very to the point: has she been well? have they heard from their friend in the senate? Is there anything she needs to discuss? In a way, he is as distant as he has been all morning — and, she thinks in retrospect, perhaps for all of the last three weeks.

 

But his hand rests lightly against the middle of her back the entire time.

 

And when he helps her into the speeder — an unnecessary but, Arihnda thinks, lovely and sentimental gesture  — he whispers _“I will see you later”_ to her just before he closes the door. It makes her heart flutter a little: a warm flush and a faint pulse like bird’s wings in her throat.

 

Perhaps she’d read his silence wrong.

 

~*~

 

Later, when he knocks on the door of her suite, she lets him in herself, working the controls of the door with her fingers rather than from a remote panel or with a voice command.

 

As soon as the door closes behind him, one of his arms comes up from his side, curving around her, his hand pressing softly against her back — and for a moment, all her irritations are forgotten. She puts her hands on his chest, leans into him, cranes her face up towards his. His expression is as inscrutable as it had been in Yularen’s office, but his fingertips find the side of her face and press there gently: soft points of pressure at her temple, cheekbone, jaw.

 

“That went rather well, didn’t it?” she asks, referring to her time at the Arcology. She is still planning to needle him about the things she didn’t entirely like, but thinks starting on a positive note will help. And she’s feeling, really, quite happy. It _had_ gone well on the whole: it was pleasant to have felt something from Yularen that seemed like regard; Thrawn _had_ been attentive to her in the end, when it was appropriate; and it’s pleasant now to be in Thrawn’s company and feel his touch.

 

Against her back, Thrawn’s hand moves just a little, almost a little circle. It is indeed quite a pleasant feeling; the warmth of his hand seems to spread all over her, and elicits a sympathetic kind of feeling between her legs. The past few weeks had been so relentlessly busy she’s hardly noticed the time passing, but now —

 

“It went well, yes,” he says politely, and he moves his hand from her face and tucks a bit of hair behind her ear, and rests his hand on her shoulder. His expression is quite somber. “Unfortunately, we must discuss your suspicions about Miss Madras in more detail.”

 

Arihnda blinks at him a couple of times. Surely they have all night to get back around to this topic. She leans into him a little more. “Is she all you want to talk about?”

 

“She is certainly what I wish to talk about at the moment,” he says evenly.

 

Arihnda frowns, then smooths her brow quite consciously and reaches up with one hand, murmuring “Are you certain?” and takes his ear between her thumb and forefinger —

 

Thrawn jerks his head to the side and yanks her hand away by the wrist in one rapid motion. For a second, they are both quite still, as if they are both a little surprised. Then he straightens his head, drops her wrist, lifts his hand from her back, and takes both her hands in his.

 

“Colonel Yularen is concerned,” Thrawn says calmly, as if nothing discomfiting had just happened between them, “and I am inclined to agree, that if your suspicions are correct, Miss Madras may be more of a danger than we initially expected.”

 

“This doesn’t feel much like an expression of concern, Commander,” she says, standing quite stiffly. “Besides, I thought our daily checks covered the matter of my safety well enough.”

 

“Consider this a reassessment.”

 

She chews on something nasty for a moment, then decides to swallow it. Sounding only partly sullen and sour, she manages to say: “Alright. We’ll talk.”

 

And like at the Arcology, he steers her with his hands: uses warm pressure to turn her and push her towards the table, and guide her down into a chair.

 

He draws out another chair, and sits as well. They are parallel to the table, facing each other, their knees touching. He has one arm resting on the table, casual, elbow bent, fingers hanging over the edge.

 

“Tell me about Miss Madras,” he says gently. “Everything you know. Everything you remember.”

 

She doesn’t say anything. She would rather not discuss this. She would rather not even continue to contemplate the possibility that Juahir had — _has_ — had —

 

Perhaps Thrawn sees that she is struggling to find a place to begin, because after a minute of her silence he reaches out and takes one of her hands in his and says: “Would it be easier if I asked more specific questions?”

 

She nods and tightens her fingers against his, and he squeezes back, a soft motion.

 

“Tell me how you first met Miss Madras,” he says.

 

The most unpleasant part of what follows is unearthing for Thrawn the fact that her job had felt like a rescue of its own when Driller offered it but that in retrospect it had clearly been Juahir’s idea to offer her up on a plate. The next-most unpleasant thing is revealing that Juahir had clearly intended to link her to Ottlis for more than merely martial arts training.

 

“She was always trying that,” Arihnda adds. “Asking if I was happy, trying to find things she could…” She pulls her hand out of his, and wraps her arms around her middle. “I didn’t think she had any kind of… I just thought it was her way of being a friend.”  Her faces twists, a little. “I suppose you think it was obviously stupid of me to fall for any of it,” she adds nastily.

 

“No,” says Thrawn pensively. “I do not think you foolish for wishing to trust those who were closest to you. I believe I said as much when we first discussed your situation.”

 

“Yes,” she says slowly. She lets her mind drift over that, for a moment. _Better company than Ottlis Dos._ Eyes refocusing on him, she says: “I’ve missed you,” as if she thinks she should have said it earlier.

 

Inscrutable, serious face. For a moment he leans very slightly forward. Then he straightens back against his chair. “I would like to go over the timeline of events involving Miss Madras and your detour to level forty-one twenty again.”

 

She tightens her arms around her middle. “Of course, Commander,” she says, turning cool. “We can walk through it as many times as you need.”

 

He only needs to walk through it once more, although his questions are quite thorough.

 

“I don’t think she intended for me to be hurt by the rowdies, even if she sent the turbolift down there,” Arihnda says finally, when Thrawn seems to have run out of questions. “Or for Ottlis to… I don’t think she intended for him to hurt me, either, you know. Whatever she wanted, I don’t think it was that.”

 

“No?”

 

“No. She and Driller have been trying — were trying — they tried, I mean — to figure out what happened with him. I wasn’t entirely… subtle, about being upset, after Ghadi.”

 

“No, I am certain you were not.”

 

Arihnda narrows her eyes briefly, then lets it go. “Well, anyway,” she says, rubbing her wrist, which has begun to ache just a little where he’d grasped it, “they were very concerned. I thought it was just about being worried their little game was up, and probably it was, but I think I’ve headed that off well enough.”

 

“Have you?”

 

“Yes, the last either of them asked about it, Driller offered to help me make a report to the Capitol Police. I think they’d both convinced themselves that Ottlis raped me, or some such nonsense.”

 

Thrawn has a way, Arihnda has noticed, of being conspicuously, almost disturbingly still. Not the stillness of a living body, but a perfect, statuary kind of lifelessness.

 

Which is precisely the stillness that settles over him now.

 

“How did they _convince themselves_ of that?” he asks softly.

 

“Juahir saw some of my bruises after… you know. I told her — told both of them — that nothing had happened with Ottlis, that there was someone else, and that it wasn’t their business. I think Juahir still thinks something is wrong, but I think her suspicions are more in that vein.” Arihnda waves her hand dismissively and adds: “Better she suspects something like that than anything else.”

 

Thrawn is silent. The expression on his face is not longer quite inscrutable. There is something distinctly like unhappiness woven into the tension around his mouth. And he is no longer looking at her face.

 

After a minute, he reaches out and takes her hand, lifting her arm and beginning to examine her wrist.

 

Arihnda watches, silent now herself, as he continues to sketch little arcs and circles and short lines lightly across her skin, stroking the places where his fingers had dug into her flesh as if he expects fresh, new bruises to bloom there, like stains the color of his skin.

 

Arihnda watches, and turns several of their encounters over in her mind. She turns the most recent one over, and over, in her mind. She turns over in her mind the thing he asked her twice, obliquely, the morning after: if she was alright.

 

She wraps her hand over his.

 

“I’m not made of glass, Commander,” she says, voice almost light.

 

He looks up from her wrist. His eyes glitter strangely. “I know that you are not,” he murmurs. He drops his attention abruptly back to her wrist and says, more crisply: “I am returning to the Arcology to discuss the matter of Miss Madras with Colonel Yularen.”

 

Arihnda frowns. “I don’t get to participate in that?”

 

“You do not, no.”

 

She tugs her hands away from him, again, and rests them on her thighs. “Why not, may I ask?”

 

“You are too invested in persuading yourself that you are in no danger to contribute usefully to the discussion.”

 

Arihnda’s hands curl, not quite into fists. She has no intention of being sidelined, not even for her own safety. “And what happens if you and Colonel Yularen decide that I am, in fact, in more danger than you previously thought?” she asks.

 

“Colonel Yularen will determine if any adjustments are necessary for your further protection.”

 

“How thoughtful,” she snaps. She takes a breath, and says, almost with hope: “Will you be coming back here, after?”

 

“No,” he says, “not tonight.”

 

Arihnda feels her face pinch into an ugly mask of fury. She feels inside her the same sudden, white-hot spike of rage she has felt with startling regularity when interacting with Juahir or Driller, a now-familiar searing thing that roars upward from deep within her almost without warning and scours everything it touches, and leaves her feeling hollow and wasted when it trickles back to its dark, unsightly home. She looks abruptly down at her hands, balled into fists so tight her skin is mottled. “Is that for my protection, too?”

 

Her question hangs in the air for perhaps twenty heartbeats before Thrawn answers.

 

“This is a serious matter,” he says in a low, flat tone. “And I do not believe that my business at the Arcology will be finished at a convenient hour.”

 

After that, there is only the sound of the chair, of footsteps, of the door.

 

~*~

 

Arihnda barely manages to drag herself out of a fitful, anxious, angry sleep before the next day begins rushing at her.

 

First, Bail calls her. The call comes via universal connection just as she gets out of the shower. She takes it audio only. Bail sounds slightly harried, but his deeply cultivated kindliness shines through.

 

“Arihnda! Thought I might be able to catch you early. How are you feeling?”

 

The question is probably a pleasantry, but Arihnda is feeling inclined exactly the right way to take it as a trap. It jolts her, and she takes a second to compose herself. “Very well, Senator, thank you. And yourself?”

 

“Good, good. Busy!”

 

“I’d guessed.”

 

Bail laughs, practiced but warm. “Well, you would have. I haven't forgotten about our mutual friend, though. I have time at the start of next week, 1000 hours Centaxday? If he’s available.”

 

“I’ll see that he is. Thank you, Senator.”

 

“My pleasure. I’ll talk to you then.” There's a small shuffling noise, as if the comm is being disconnected manually, and Arihnda is reaching for the control panel in the wall, when Bail’s voice rises from the speaker again. “Arihnda? Take care of yourself.”

 

Which certainly raises Arihnda’s hackles. “Of course, Senator,” she says. “I’ll see you next week.”

 

~*~

 

Yularen comms her next, while she’s driving to the office.

 

“Arihnda, how are you doing?”

 

A normal, pleasant greeting that still somehow grates. “I’m well, Colonel. How are you?”

 

“Well, thank you. I spoke with Thrawn last night —” Arihnda's hands tighten on the steering yoke with sudden ferocity, and she feels a burning rush of… shame. The feeling is shame. And she isn't sure if the cautious hitch in Yularen's speech is real or only her imagination — “and we’ve decided we’d like to discuss this business with Juahir Madras again, if you’d be so good as to come in.”

 

She flexes her hands on the steering yoke and tries to relax. “Of course, Colonel. Whatever you think will be helpful.”

 

This time she is sure the pause is not her imagination. “Good, excellent. Meet us at the Arcology this afternoon, would you? My office, at 1400 standard?”

 

“Of course. See you then, Colonel.”

 

~*~

 

At the office, she receives a message from one of the maître d’hôtel’s she's reached out to for information about Senator and Lady Hem. He works at a small establishment even pricier and vastly more rarefied than the Pinnacle, and she's made it clear she's willing to pay for the information she wants — and that it's the kind of information he can give away without losing any sleep. She'd just like to send the Lady a gift, and could he help her pick a good one…? Just a pointer about her tastes would be so appreciated…

 

He suggests she contact their sommelier, and includes a contact code for universal connection. Excellent, Arihnda thinks. She can follow up on that immediately. And she does: catching the man by comm and setting a meeting for mid-day.

 

And there's no reason, she thinks, not to update Driller on her progress before then. She can even fold a little something extra in.

 

She lets herself into his office, and makes sure the door is closed behind her.

 

“Arihnda, everything okay?”

 

“Yes. I think I've almost got Lady Hem in a useful place, I’ll be meeting with someone helpful most of the day —”

 

“Okay…”

 

“But I thought I’d run a personal errand while I was out, and I hoped you might help. It's a bit embarrassing, but I have to send my parents some credits and I was wondering if you knew a transfer service with a good rate?”

 

Driller looks taken aback, first openly surprised and then narrowly confused and then he seems to actually think about it — and then he shakes his head.

 

“I don't, I'm sorry. But I can cover the cost of the transfer if you need.”

 

Arihnda smiles a little wanly. Inside, she is seething. She is not really _surprised_ he’s said no; it almost gives her a kind of confirmation, perverse and self-justifying, of her low opinion of him. And perhaps, a little bit of rationality murmurs under the torrent of her mood, that was more her point than getting an answer. She takes an extra moment to make sure her voice is controlled before she says: “No, that's alright. But thank you.”

 

“Anything else?”

 

“No. I’ll be back in the office tomorrow.”

 

~*~

 

Thrawn comms as she's on her way to speak with the sommelier.

 

“You're calling early.” She manages to sound quite civil. She doesn't know how to broach any of the unsaid things, so she pretends for the sake of convenience that they don't exist.

 

“Yes,” he says. And then he's silent. Either he also doesn't know how to broach the unsaid things, or he doesn't care. Sort of a toss-up which one it might be, she thinks. “Colonel Yularen has spoken with you?” he asks finally.

 

“Yes.”

 

He is silent for another short moment and she wonders what the hell he expects her to say, if there's something Yularen should have told her, something Thrawn expects her to already know, if —

 

“I do not wish you to feel ambushed later,” Thrawn says, with the tone of someone who has made a decision they know a superior will dislike, and has decided not to care, “so I am going to tell you now that Colonel Yularen wishes you to walk us through the events that transpired with Miss Madras on level forty-one twenty in person. That is: physically, by retracing your route.”

 

Arihnda’s speeder wobbles in its lane for a moment. “I see.”

 

“You will let me know if you feel this is beyond you. If you do, I will speak to Colonel Yularen before this afternoon’s meeting, and suggest a reasonable alternative.”

 

“I don't need you to run interference —”

 

“I would of course present the idea as my own. I thought you would prefer it to… I thought perhaps you would find it convenient.”

 

Someone behind her honks aggressively and she realizes her attention has wandered dangerously. Whatever she was expecting from him, it wasn't that.

 

“No,” she says. “No, thank you. It's alright. I think I can do it.”

 

Another silence. Longer. The he says “Very well,” and disconnects the line.

 

It’s only after he hangs up that she realizes she probably should have said something about Bail.

 

But suddenly, she finds she doesn't have time.

 

She turns her speeder hard off the path she's on, telling her comm system to find the sommelier as she does so.

 

“Can we push this back a little?” she asks when he greets her. “I'm afraid I've had something rather last-minute come up.”

 

~*~

 

“Thought we wouldn't see you again until tomorrow,” Driller says, a mixture of wariness and confusion masked by an attempt at banter.

 

“Forgot something, sorry,” she says, breezing past him towards her workstation. “I'm In a bit of a hurry.”

 

When she gets to her workstation, she fishes a data card out of her pocket. It's loaded with copies of the thief and sniffer programs Yularen had provided her. She'd thought it prudent to keep them for herself, just in case.

 

And now she's got something else she wants to add to the mix.

 

She's not the best slicer, but she's good. Making good-enough-to-pass scan docs to go with the fake accounts she's already using to siphon credits out of Driller’s shadow funds isn't so difficult, and it only takes a couple hours. She still has enough time, she thinks, to speak with the sommelier from Lady Hem’s favorite restaurant before going to the Arcology — if she drives fast enough, anyway.

 

But she still takes time to wipe her activity logs from her workstation before she departs.

 

~*~

 

The sommelier is remarkably easy to ply. The conversation is so easy and successful that it's not only a distraction but a pleasure in and of itself, and she finds herself almost tapping her fingers on the steering yoke of her speeder as she heads off for the ISB after speaking to him. Whatever else happens, she thinks, she’ll soon have a friend in Lady Hem — as long as she can find a very particular bottle of Bimmisari four-blend, that is.

 

~*~

 

Her good mood does not quite withstand the pressure of entering the Arcology, knowing what’s waiting for her in Yularen’s office.

 

“Not smiling today, I see,” comes a voice from behind her.

 

She turns and sees a face she recognizes. Lean, bony, acquisitive: sharp angles and a hungry mien.

 

“Hello,” she says to the Naval officer she’d met yesterday. She turns and continues following her little holomap. No sense bringing ISB security measures down on her head for a chat.

 

“Have you perhaps decided you no longer like our illustrious Deputy Director?” the officer asks, falling into step with her again.

 

Arihnda gives him a thin smile of her own. “No. Are you visiting him this week?”

 

“I was just on my way out.” He gives her a subtly rapacious look. “But I’m happy to double back, if you’d like the company. And I can always show you that faster route.”

 

Arihnda pauses in her stride again. She is not really enjoying his attention today. She feels, at best, a tired, bitter sort of cynicism about it: if Thrawn ever decides to be done with her, she supposes, she can always let this whip-thin slice of steel have a go. The prospect is neither enticing nor revolting. It simply is.

 

But it’s always good to have friends, and anyone who knows Yularen as well as this man pretends to is a good friends to have.

 

“Why don’t you walk the long way with me?” she says.

 

He gives a little half-bow, and gestures her forward with a hand. “Of course. Lead on.”

 

They walk a couple steps in silence before he starts to work at making conversation again. That ought to be her own job, Arihnda thinks, kicking herself. She knows that much.

 

“I’m afraid I still don’t know your name,” he says.

 

“Arihnda Pryce,” she says. Some piece of her intellect tells her to ask for his, but she can’t quite bring the words to her lips. She just doesn’t _care_ enough.

 

“Arihnda,” he repeats. “Beautiful name. Not from a Core World though, is it?”

 

Arihnda bristles, displays politeness anyway. “No, unfortunately. I was born and raised in the Outer Rim: Lothal.”

 

“Lothal!” he says. “I’ve heard of it. Is it true you’ve got an entirely native species of wolf?”

 

Strange, Arihnda thinks. Lothal’s not, she knows, well known. It’s ecology, even less so. But she says: “Extinct, I’m afraid. And you? Are you from Coruscant?”

 

“Hardly,” he says, laughing. It’s a very practiced sound; he’s got the form, but he hasn’t quite learned to make it sound real. Or perhaps he doesn’t care enough. “I was born and raised in the Western Reaches, no place you’ve ever heard of, I promise you. I worked on the accent when I started working for the Empire. I’m flattered you think it comes off so well.” His voice drops a little, an unsubtle change, and he nearly purrs: “Especially because you’ve done such fine work with your own.”

 

Arihnda etches a smile onto her face, briefly. “Thank you. I don’t think I’ve had so long to practice as you.”

 

“Yet you sound almost native to Coruscant, I assure you. I have quite an ear for accents and languages, if I may compliment myself a little. Side effect of my fondness for opera.” He gives her one of those feral, sidelong glances again, and in spite of her low mood Arihnda still feels strangely mirrored by it. “Are you fond of opera, Arihnda?”

 

She sees the flirting for what it is, but she’s more concerned with the fact that her honest answer is no _,_ because she doesn’t know anything about opera. This is one of the things she thinks of as her _gaps:_ elements of culture and breeding she is lacking, shibboleths known to the real upper crust and still unfamiliar to her. Carefully, she says: “I’m not very familiar with it, I’m afraid. That’s not to say I dislike it, of course.”

 

His look becomes less sidelong, more obvious. “You must take yourself to the Coruscant Opera someday. Their production of _Illure Beelthrak_ is not to be missed.”

 

“I’ll bear that in mind. I appreciate the recommendation.” She has to work a little to keep her jaw from clenching; Coruscant Opera is one of the mingling grounds for the wealthiest, most influential members of high society. Perhaps if she succeeds in her current plans, she’ll be able to obtain a ticket, but absent that…

 

“Of course,” he says generously. It doesn’t quite have the same ring as _you’re welcome._ They stop at a turbolift which rises directly to Yularen’s office suite. After a polite moment of silence, he says: “I would be more than happy to go with you, if you find yourself in need of company. I have season tickets. And I always enjoy sharing my passion with new friends.”

 

Arihnda takes advantage of the turbolift’s arrival, and of the business of stepping into it and waiting for the doors to close to compose a reply: “I’ll certainly be sure to come wander the halls of the ISB if I ever find myself in need of a companion for the opera.”

 

Another practiced, slightly unnerving laugh. “I recommend you do that. The Emperor himself has a fondness for the art form, you know.”

 

“Does he?”

 

“Oh, very much so. In fact, he’s the reason I know of it at all.”

 

Arihnda turns her head towards him just a little. He is looking at her sidelong, again, as if gauging her response.

 

“Certainly it would benefit all of us to learn from his wisdom,” she says.

 

Something like a smirk curls the officer’s thin lips. “Well said, Arihnda. And certainly true.”

 

The turbolift decelerates to a soft stop, and lets them out. The officer strides ahead of her, to the door of Yularen’s office, and opens it.

 

“Colonel,” he says almost pleasantly with only a faintly smug, unctuous undertone, “I found a guest of yours.”

 

“Galli, hello — did you?” Yularen’s voice comes from inside the room, a strange mix of cautious fondness and strained circumspection in his tone.

 

Arihnda steps to the door behind the officer. Yularen is seated at his desk, Vanto is standing behind Yularen’s shoulder, and Thrawn is in the middle of the room.

 

Thrawn’s face betrays very little, but Arihnda sees a certain stiffness in his body, senses his attention shifting between herself and the officer — Galli.

 

“Miss Pryce, you are late,” Thrawn says simply. It has the effect of pulling her away from her companion as if by the elbow.

 

“My apologies Commander,” she says, weirdly grateful, slipping past Galli into the room.

 

“I’m afraid it’s my fault,” says Galli, smiling a little more fully than Arihnda’s seen before.

 

Galli’s smile reminds her of a starving dog she’d seen once in the dusty street outside her family’s home, ill and slavering, snapping its jaws around empty air. Arihnda had been eight or nine, had been running out to play. Their household security droid had been in the shop for repairs. Arihnda’s mother had shot the dog.

 

“You should tell me when you have such lovely company, Wullf,” Galli continues, still smiling his unnerving smile.

 

“Yes, I’ll remember to next time,” says Yularen. Arihnda can’t quite read that tone. Thrawn has not moved from his place in the middle of the room.

 

Galli’s eyes slide over each of them in turn, moving counter-clockwise: Arihnda, Vanto, Yularen, Thrawn.

 

“Will there be anything else, Lieutenant Commander Rax?” says Thrawn, very politely. Almost deferentially, in spite of the younger man’s lower rank, Arihnda thinks.

 

“No, nothing else Commander Thrawn.” He half turns to leave, then turns back on his heel. “Oh, Commander Thrawn, do let me know if you’re interested in seeing _Cora Vessora_ next week.”

 

“I will do so.”

 

“Mm,” says Galli. “Have a pleasant meeting, all,” he calls as the door slides shut behind him.

 

The moment the door whisks shut, Thrawn moves: crosses the room and, pressing a hand between her shoulder blades, ushers Arihnda to the couch. He does not say anything to her, but he stands by the end of the couch — leaves his hand on her shoulder, just his fingertips, balanced precisely on the point of her shoulder — as if he is standing guard. Just as with their call earlier, whatever she had expected from him, it wasn’t exactly this.

 

Yularen is watching the door, watching the spot where Galli had stood. Then he shakes himself, and turns his attention to Arihnda.

 

“Arihnda,” he says, kindly but with firmness, “I’d like to try and determine if Juahir Madras is able to, or knows people who are able to, slice the city’s transportation grids. You understand that this a matter of some importance.”

 

“Of course, Colonel.”

 

“Good. To that end, I’d like you to show Commander Thrawn and Ensign Vanto the exact locations of events in the story you told us yesterday. We’ll put our slicers to work on the relevant portions of the data grid, of course, but we’d also like to try and determine where she might have been coming from.” He seems to hesitate a little. He exchanges a glance with Thrawn, and then says, sounding almost apologetic: “I’d ask you just to do it on a holo map, but from experience I find that in-person observations and recollections tend to be a little more valuable.”

 

“I understand,” says Arihnda. And, _god_ , she thinks, it really was good of Thrawn to prepare her for this. “And I quite agree that it would be good to try to map out where she might have been coming from, I’ve been thinking about it myself, in fact. I suspect that coming with Ottlis she was probably coming from Yinchom. It’s on a lower level than her apartment —”

 

“We’ll certainly test some routes between there and the place where she found you, of course,” says Yularen. Cutting her off isn’t unkind, but it does kick her back into her place a little. “But we’d like to work through it thoroughly. Let’s go over the logistics.”

 

“Of course,” she says smoothly, already prepared in her mind for what’s next. “Tell me how I can help.”

 

~*~

 

Coruscant could be perpetually sunlit, perpetual cool summer morning, perpetual warm spring afternoon, if weather control so chose. Instead, almost as affectation, Coruscant has night, and chill air, and long, dark shadows that stretch like hungry, grasping fingers clawing into every topsider’s illusion of safety. Darkness oozes across the city at its appointed hour every day, bringing cold and fear and danger in its wake. It is into the darkness that Yularen sends her, on the basis that it will be easier to avoid observation by her colleagues if she does not begin her task until they have all gone home.

 

She does not disagree with the logic. And, she supposes, she has little to fear. Thrawn is beside her, hovering close just as he had in Yularen’s office, his demeanor as quiet as his footfalls. Vanto, serious gaze scanning over everything around them, hangs a few steps back as a one-man rear guard. Arihnda herself has a holdout blaster tucked against her hip: a weapon given to her by Yularen.

 

And even aside from the time of day, none of them are likely to be recognized. Thrawn is wrapped in a dark obscuring cloak over nondescript civilian clothes like hers and Vanto’s, and his eyes are obscured by glasses such a deep green they are almost black.

 

_“Can you see in those?” she’d asked at the arcology when he’d put them on._

 

_“They do not obscure the infrared spectrum,” he’d said mildly. “I will be able to see well enough.”_

 

Arihnda had known that his gaze informed him more than any human’s sense of sight, but she had not quite known exactly how much more. It adds an additional level of… whatever the opposite of privacy is, to interacting with him. And there hadn’t been much of a sense of privacy there to begin with.

 

But her attention now is less on Thrawn and more on steps before her. Strange, how fast the familiar can become alien. She had changed her route home after the incident on level forty-one twenty: had never taken that turbolift again, not once, not ever. Had gone further than that, in fact, and begun taking her speeder everywhere, even on the short commute to work. She finds that the steps that had once been automatic, from the street-level door of the building that housed Higher Skies to the turbolift itself are like an old, fading echo in her mind: she has to focus on it to make the sound come clear.

 

From the door, first left, a long straight path, a sharp right, sharp left — things are well-lit up here. Driller’s network pulls in money for prime real estate. Another long straight stretch. Another left. Turbolift.

 

Thrawn touches the middle of her back as they step into the empty lift together.

 

Vanto follows them in, steps up beside her. “Ready?”

 

Arihnda turns her head to look at him. The look on his face is caught between tense professionalism and what might be skeptical concern.

 

“Yes,” she says, “I’m fine.” She reaches across him, and prods the button for level forty-one twenty: almost as far down as this particular lift will go.

 

“It’ll be a while,” Vanto says, almost conversationally, not quite to either Arihnda or Thrawn.  

 

“I remember,” Arihnda says, masking her more unpleasant emotions with an attempt at irony.

 

Thrawn’s hand, which is still on her back, presses against her just a little. “How long, did you say?”

 

She stiffens a little, takes a breath, glances briefly up towards him, only long enough to confirm that he is in fact looking at her, then looks back at the door. The whole operation takes maybe a second and a half. “Maybe… two minutes? Two and a half? Not quite three.” she says to the door of the turbolift.

 

There is a very subtle, very gentle shift of his hand against her back. “Long enough to speak with Miss Madras,” he says, his tone as gentle as the motion of his hand.

 

“Yes,” says Arihnda.

 

She can feel that Vanto is still watching her too, from her other side. She does not really care to be dissected by him, but for the moment, trapped in the turbolift, levels rushing by, one after the other after the other after the other, she see no other choice. She turns her attention back to Thrawn, who is still looking down at her, and still has his hand against her back. Still has his hand against her, as if he is holding her upright. As if she were a fragile thing.

 

“Tell us what to expect at the bottom,” says Thrawn, “as a review.”

 

“We’ll be turning right,” she says, pulling herself up a little straighter. She finds two memories, rising to the front of her mind. Fingers stroking lightly at her wrist, last night. And weeks earlier, his body curved over hers: _I am with you._ Perhaps he is, but she would like to be recognized as a little stronger than this. “I believe I went over this with you: Juahir told me where to for the nearest turbolift. It was a few blocks away.”

 

A heartbeat’s pause, only enough to be felt, and no more. Then he says: “Then we will turn right.”

 

The levels are still rushing by: down, down, down.

 

“You are ready, Ensign Vanto?” Thrawn asks, his voice floating in the open air above Arihnda’s head.

 

“Yes, sir.”

 

Thrawn does not speak to Arihnda again, but his hand presses flat and flush between her shoulder blades, fingers spreading wide, as the lift decelerates to a total stop.

 

Level fourty-one twenty.

 

“We shall go,” Thrawn says.

 

His comment is perfectly, obnoxiously timed the opening of the door. The drama of his timing distracts Arihnda, somehow, from any chill tremor of fear that returning to this place might bring. She doesn’t know if that’s intentional.

 

And she finds she doesn’t care, really.

 

There is nothing about the lower levels from which one should not want to be distracted. The air is denser here, strange and stale, heated and foully perfumed by the recyclers which suffuse it with a moulded sort of damp. The buildings loom around them. Where the buildings topside seem to soar upwards, the structures on the lower levels seem to bulge and buckle, dark and heavy and brutal, claustrophobic and grimy and enclosing. The light is wrong, too: grotesquely artificial, drab and sickly neons glimmering in a perpetual grey-green haze. And the streets are littered with filth.

 

They cluster together outside the turbolift for just a moment after the doors close behind them. Arihnda looks around her to try and remember, to get her bearings.  Beside her, Thrawn and Vanto also observe their setting, though for somewhat different reasons.

 

There are people in small clusters hurrying to their homes, or to less savory destinations. Most people seem as though they are trying to pass unseen, and unmolested. As with last time, she does not see the sign of the working turbolift that she remembers. But she remembers where Juahir had said it was: six blocks west.

 

Thrawn’s hand is still on Arihnda’s back. She stands as tall as she can and brings her shoulder blades together, dislodging him.

 

“This way,” she says, setting off.

 

Her two companions fall in with her almost instantly. She expected no less, really.

 

And she doesn’t really have mental energy to spare for them. The experience of returning to this place is deeply strange: space and time both feel different now, with her safety not at issue, which throws into sudden and sharp relief how distorted both space and time had been by fear and adrenaline the last time she was here. Arihnda sees the turbolift she had headed for: they’ve gone four blocks and it’s come into view, and it is, indeed, broken, its once-bright beacon turned to dull, unlit grey. It is closer than she remembered.

 

Dark alleyways canopied with twisting webs of jury-rigged wires and ill-lit avenues seemingly guarded by strange-looking, suspicious-eyes lurkers branch off from the street they are on, a sickly excuse for a boulevard, where the bulky, slime-mold smeared buildings stand just slightly taller, as if in paltry imitation of the soaring lightness of the upper levels. Occasionally a passer-by rushing for some haven of their own will stir the air around them, whisking up a little whirl of discarded wrappers and mysterious refuse, and wafting around them the foul smell of the miasmic dirt that coats the ground beneath their feet.

 

She had not, she recalls, quite made it to the turbolift when the rowdies had emerged from the edges of the boulevard.

 

And she finds she doesn’t recall exactly where it happened. Four blocks - four and a half? Five? She knows that she could see the sign for the lift by then.

 

She can, of course, recall their faces. She would know them if she ever saw them, anywhere, she is certain of it. And the one who’d talked — _Hey sweets —_ she would know his voice anywhere, too.

 

But she is not sure, exactly, _where_ they had stopped her. She thinks of herself as detail-oriented. Even in the midst of her first encounter with Ghadi, or her second, she had been clear-headed.

 

And she had been clear-headed in her way when the rowdies had encircled her, ringing her in like a prey animal. There had been a railing — Where was the section of walkway with the railing?

 

She stops. Thrawn and Vanto stop with her.

 

“You have remembered something?” Thrawn asks carefully.

 

She shakes her head. “There should be a railing, with a drop of a few levels, to our right, somewhere, but I don’t see it.”

 

Vanto speaks then: “Layneo told me once that lower levels get modified a lot, people making whatever changes they want, since city planning doesn’t invest —”

 

“We’ll just walk the rest of the way to the other lift, I think,” Arihnda says over him. “I’ll know if I see it. It must have been further on than I thought.” And she sets off again, without waiting for a response.

 

They do find the railing, not quite another block on. Four and a half, then. The railing, and the two doorways — she remembers the first six of the pack streaming out of them, three from each. _Lookin’ for a little fun?_

 

Arihnda stops. Stands. Feels herself being observed. Thrawn doesn’t step any closer to her, and she’s grateful for that.

 

“It was here,” she says. She takes a steadying breath, her chin is high. She turns slowly on her heel, looking around. Most of the lights are repaired, but the businesses are still shuttered. She remembers the man and the woman, striding towards her. Juahir and Ottlis, though she hadn’t recognized her friend at first, and hadn’t know Ottlis at all. They’d come from… the rowdies had moved around her, penning her in, her back to the railing, and the one who’d done the talking… _Aw, don’t be like that._ She stops. “There,” she says, pointing. “She came from over there. With Ottlis.”

 

“Ensign Vanto?” says Thrawn.

 

“Got it, sir,” he says, a little terse but still professional, taking out a mini datapad and entering something into it quickly before tucking it quickly back into a pocket. “Do we need anything else?” he says to Thrawn.

 

“No,” says Eli, frowning. “Just…” He looks at Arihnda. “Juahir knew what lift you’d be heading for because she told you which one to go to, right?”

 

“Yes,” Arihnda confirms for what feels, at this point, like the umpteenth time.

 

“And she knew what lift you were coming _from_ because she knew your usual commute. It’s just…”

 

Arihnda frowns at him, waiting.

 

“Yes, Ensign?” prompts Thrawn.

 

“I guess it makes sense for you to stay on the main street, but Juahir would have had a very hard time finding you if you’d chosen any other path,” Vanto says to Arihnda. “Plus she’d have to be making the assumption that you’d end up getting jumped, unless she hired the rowdies.”

 

“Yes,” says Arihnda slowly. She’s had these doubts, too.

 

“I was just thinking,” he says, with a tone that says he’s really just _deciding,_ “if she was setting something up, she left a lot to chance.”

 

Arihnda feels something sour roiling in her chest, and feels her expression curdle too. “Well, perhaps she’s not as good at forward planning as you are,” she snarls.

 

“The situation still bears examination,” Thrawn says to Vanto, sounding quite politic. “And we have the additional information we need. I believe we should return —”

 

“I’d like to see the transfer service,” Arihnda says across him. “It’ll probably be closed at this time of night, but I’d at least like to… I’d like to see it. While we’re down here.”

 

A glance exchanged between Thrawn and Vanto: a silent decision made about her by the men around her, again.

 

She is getting a bit tired of that.

 

“Very well,” says Thrawn. “Ensign Vanto, what is the best route?”

 

“Assuming the streets are open, it’s…” Vanto frowns again, tapping at the datapad. “It’s that way,” he says, pointing the same direction Arihnda had when she’d pointed out where Juahir and Ottlis had come from. “Shouldn’t be more than a five-minute walk.”

 

“Very well,” says Thrawn again. “Lead the way.”

 

 _That way_ turns into a turn off the main road, into a seedy alleyway with flickering, half-broken signs and shattered lamps and broken lamp posts. The alley isn’t cramped, but it is markedly dirtier than the main route.

 

A discarded food wrapper sticks to Arihnda’s shoe. Indeterminate stains and unpleasant-looking pastes are smeared across the doors and windows of most of the closed-up buildings. A sickly-looking man, human and nearly skeletal, extends a hand from a doorway and asks for something — food or credits, but his words are indistinct.

 

They pass through bands of light and shadow, and then into a wider avenue, better-lit, better-cleaned, but still infinitely more filthy.

 

Coruscant is not without its fleshmarkets, sexual and otherwise. The Empire had legalized the enslavement of non-humans, and made indentured servitude of humans, practically enslavement for the duration of a contract, legal as well. And, of course, Coruscant even under the Republic had catered to every form of lewd, lascivious vice; one need only sufficient money to indulge in any lust.

 

The signs on this better-lit, better-maintained section of street are very blunt about what is on offer. Sometimes, the window displays are to the point as well. Non-humans, near-humans, and near-human hybrids of indeterminate species, almost all apparently female or at least effeminate, occupy glass-fronted rooms a story or two above street level, lounging against the walls and making the occasional, unenthusiastic come-hither gesture to passers-by.

 

In some windows, they do a little more than lounge or beckon.

 

Arihnda finds that to her surprise she is not particularly thrown by much of it, not embarrassed at all. She is, in fact, mostly wondering Thrawn thinks of it all. A sharp, side-long glance at him reveals nothing.

 

“It’s, uh…” Vanto clears his throat. “It’s at the end of the street.”

 

“Indeed,” says Thrawn.

 

The street feels interminably long. But when they get to the end, Arihnda suddenly wishes it was perhaps a bit longer. The credit transfer point is housed in a very lewd, very filthy-looking bar, whose smeared and grimy exterior is plastered with once-gawdy advertisements for a live show, the specific nature of which is depicted quite graphically in cartoon imagery, and with equally filthy posters reading _LABOR CONTRACTS SOLD HERE; ALL NON-HUMAN SPECIES; PERMANENT AND TERM INDENTURED._

 

The entrance is guarded by two very large bouncers of indeterminate, near-human persuasion.

 

“Are you sure this is right?” she asks Vanto, her tension coming out as a slightly nasty tone.

 

“Yeah, I’m sure,” he says, sounding equally unhappy and a little snappish in his own right.

 

“This is legal?” Thrawn asks, his tone conveying as much as a raised eyebrow. “These services being offered by a single business?”

 

“It’s a cantina, technically,” says Vanto, “according to its business registration. Cantinas can offer almost any service you can think of. It’s a kind of loophole, but it stays in place so that small outposts in places like the Rim and Wild Space that might not have more than one business in a whole town can still get services — banking and cash transfer, notarization of deeds, that kind of thing.”

 

“I see,” says Thrawn. “Shall we go in?”

 

“I’d rather n—” Vanto starts.

 

“Yes,” Arihnda says, heading for the door. Perhaps she will find something useful to understanding Higher Skies inside. Perhaps this was the place Juahir and Ottlis had been waiting as her turbolift plummeted down this shit level of the ecunemopolis whose glittering outer shell served only hide tens of hundreds of other equally shit levels of miserable life. Perhaps she’d learn something about Jauhir. She doesn’t really have a clear expectation. She just knows that she needs to _know._

 

And she has her newly-minted datacards in her pocket, and a few good guesses about how this place runs.

 

And she intends to prove that she is not made of anything nearly so fragile as glass.

 

Thrawn and Vanto arrive at the door just a half-pace behind her.

 

“Cover charge is seventy-five credits a head,” says the larger of the two bouncers, giving Arihnda a look up and down that tells her he’s just made up the price on the spot, just to see if she’ll pay it.

 

Vanto makes a strangled sound, but Arihnda’s already plucked the universal credit chip that she uses for her hotel out of her pocket. She doesn’t disagree that the charge is ridiculous; the real price is probably closer to twenty or twenty-five credits, but Arihnda doesn’t want to argue. She wants to get in.

 

“Two-hundred and twenty-five credits, done,” says Arihnda. “Do you have a scanner?”

 

The bouncer looks her up and down. His bald head is wrinkled and grooved in a way that makes her think he might be part Dresselian. He pulls a mini-scanner out of his pocket and takes the chip from her. “Have fun,” he says lazily as he hands it back.

 

The bar is small, crowded, thudding with atrocious music and heated by too-close bodies. There’s no missing the _live show,_ which is being presented on a raised dais that is the only well-lit section of the space: in the spotlight, something grotesque — anatomically sexually and in every other way a revolting perversion of sex — is being done to a Twi’lek woman by two near-human men. The woman is bound with rope, and there are ugly clamps high on her lekku that Arihnda knows make the rest of the binding purely aesthetic. The bar’s patrons seem to be enjoying the display; some shout encouragement, or suggestions for what should be done to the woman next. The sounds from the stage are being broadcast over the thudding music by a staticy broad-comm system. The woman is making noises that, to Arihnda, sound unambiguously like pain.

 

Unconsciously, Arihnda curls her arms protectively around her middle.

 

“Kriffing hell,” Vanto says from behind Arihnda, his barely-audible voice rough with visceral disgust.

 

Beside her, she feels that Thrawn is standing unnaturally still.

 

“Legal as well?” he murmurs in a low voice.

 

Arihnda swallows her own disgust, which lands in the pit of her stomach like a heavy slab of rotting meat. She manages to say “Anything is legal with slaves,” in a sharp voice, and then she turns equally sharply away from the sight, drops her arms stiffly to her sides, and heads for the bar.

 

“I need to send some credits,” she says to the Devaronian bartender. She feels Thrawn and Vanto crowd in on either side of her.

 

“Rate’s eight percent,” he says, barely glancing at them. “You got an account with us?”

 

“No,” says Arihnda.

 

“Can’t do the transaction from the bar unless you have an account. Need to open one?”

 

“Yes,” she says.

 

“Office is the third door on the left, down the hall. Follow the signs for the bathroom.”

 

“It’s open now?” Vanto asks, almost incredulous.

 

The Devaronian glances at him, a little annoyed. “Yeah. That’s why I’m sending you back there.”

 

“Thank you,” says Thrawn politely.

 

“Wait,” says Arihnda, catching Thrawn by the wrist without looking away from the bartender. “I also need to buy a couple of labor contracts. Is that the same office?”

 

“Yeah. Those are pricey.”

 

“I’m sure they are,” she says. “Thank you for your help.”

 

She exchanges a look with Thrawn, for just a minute, as she turns from the bar. Her expression is meant to say _trust me_ , but it feels more like a question. Thrawn’s own expression, what she can see of it within his cowl, is impossible to read — but after a second he nods slightly in acquiescence, and sets off for the office.

 

The corridor is small, cramped, and filthy, and smells vile. She and Thrawn and Vanto have to pass through it single-file to make room for a rough-looking Human-Chagrian hybrid making his way back to the bar from what Arihnda assumes to be the bathroom. Arihnda shoulders past Thrawn when they reach the correct door, and raps smartly on it.

 

They’re let in to a dingy bolthole by a large, sickly-looking, bad-smelling human in ill-fitting clothes. His greasy hair sticks to his forehead, and one of his shoes makes a revolting squelching sound every time he takes a step. “Labor contracts?” Greasy asks, eyeing them as the crowd into the room.

 

Arihnda thinks that is based more on how much money they appear to have than on anything else.

 

“Yes,” she says, “and a credit transfer.”

 

“Well, you’ve gotta set up an account first.”

 

“Of course. Tell me what you need from me.”

 

“Credit chip, name, scan docs. That’s about it.”

 

“Juahir Dos,” she says, handing him her fake data card. Both those names are common enough in Wild Space, and reasonably common in the rest of the Outer Rim, that she's pretty sure she’ll get away with her little joke. “This is a little more lightweight than a full banking account,” she adds casually.

 

“Yeah,” he says, plugging the data card into the terminal, tapping a few keys. “What are you sending?”

 

“A thousand credits, to Dila Madras.” Next to her, Vanto starts in his seat. Thrawn, standing behind them both, places a hand on his shoulder. Arihnda can practically feel him watching her. Good, fine, that’s fine.

 

Greasy doesn't react to the sum at all, but taps at the keys some more, then frowns. “She lives on Coruscant. You don’t just wanna walk the credits over to her?”

 

“I want not to be questioned about my preferences by someone I’m paying,” Arihnda replies smoothly. “Will this transaction be a problem for you?”

 

“No,” he says, almost bored. “No, not at all. With the transfer fee that’ll be —"

 

“One thousand and eighty credits,” Arihnda says. “You can take it from my account whenever you’re ready.” She adds a little bit of boredom to that, and a very small sprinkle of vaguely implied impatience.

 

“Yeah, okay,” he says. A few more taps, a short minute of quiet. “Done.”

 

“Wonderful,” says Arihnda brightly. “You don’t mind if I call her to confirm?”

 

“Sure, go for it,” he says.

 

Arihnda pulls her private comm out of her pocket. The one she uses with Thrawn. The one that has the advantage of keeping conversations one-sided.

 

And she comms Yularen.

 

“Dila, darling” she says brightly into the comm, “I’ve just sent a little test balloon up from a new potential partner.” Greasy raises his eyebrows at her in a vaguely bored kind of way, and she smiles thinly at him. In her ear, Yularen whispers _where are you?_ “A thousand credits, from level forty-one twenty. In the new account I set up for you. Drill down a little and you’ll find it.” _Oh, is that where you got the name? Funny. Are you with Thrawn?_ “Yes, it should be in your account already, if everything’s going to plan. Go ahead and check for me, would you?”

 

A few minutes of noise in the background: Yularen comming analysts and slicers who shred open Coruscant’s banking and transfer networks with astonishing speed.

 

 _What else can you tell me?_ Yularen’s voice comes low and serious in her ear. _There are more transfers than yours coming off that level._ “Yes, yes,” she says, playing her slightly keyed-up nerves as general elan. “Let me know once you’ve confirmed it, could you?” Arihnda goes on. “I don’t want to purchase labor contracts from anyone who can’t execute a simple transfer.” She smiles widely at Greasy, who is starting to frown at her. _Slavers, then? Interesting. Anything else?_ he murmurs. _Did they ask for any information about you?_ “Oh,” says Arihnda to Greasy, feigning distraction, speaking loud enough to be heard clearly over the comm, “would you give me my data card back? I can’t see that you need my scandocs any more.”

 

“Sure,” he says, still frowning. “Have it.”

 

In her ear, Yularen’s voice comes again: _Did you plant our thief program?_

 

“What, love?” says Arihnda casually, feigning disinterestedness. “Oh, of course. I can’t say I’m enjoying my time down here much — you should get a whiff of it, really. The smell is astounding.” _Sniffer program too?_ Yularen muses to her. “Obviously,” she says with a tinkling laugh. “I can’t wait to be back topside.” She smiles wider at Greasy, who frowns deeper in response. _Sniffer program just pinged us,_ Yularen whispers, _we have a data connection. Get him to pull up some labor contracts. I’ll comm you back when we have something._ “Wonderful, thank you so much, darling.” She disconnects the comm. “Beautiful work,” she says leaning forward and smiling. “Now let’s talk about what else you can sell me.”

 

Greasy sits back a little, chair creaking beneath his bulk. “Tell me what you’re lookin’ for.”

 

“I’m looking for someone who can supply anything my clients happen to need,” she says, musical tone undercut but a slight edge of cold iron. “Based on your show out front, I think you might be the type.”

 

“So you don’t have anything particular in mind yet?” he says, eyes narrow.

 

“We’d like to look at the wares.” Arihnda’s smile has taken on a cold, sharp quality. “Tell us what you’ve got on sale, and a little about what I might be able to ask for. We’ll look at the contracts, and if you have anything available on-site, we’ll look at that in person, too.”

 

Greasy thinks about that for a minute. “Yeah, okay.” He leans forward, and starts tapping at the data terminal. “Right now we’ve got a range of non-humans in permanent contracts, mostly female, and a couple of humans in five to ten year terms. For the non-humans, I’ve got a Quarren, two Twi’leks, and a Nautolan if you wanna look at ‘em. Nautolan’s the only male. Twi’leks are your best price point; the trouble on Ryloth makes ‘em come cheap. Lots of ‘em coming by way of Nal Hutta these days. You wanna take a look?”

 

“We’d love to,” Arihnda says.

 

The halls extend further back into the building, cramped and filthy and reeking. They stop at a distant door, and open it. The smell nearly makes Arihnda wretch.

 

And the expressions on the faces that peer back at her make her look away almost instantly.

 

“Yes,” she says, “well, I see you have what you’ve promised. Let’s go back and discuss it in your office.”

 

She catches Thrawn’s eye as she pushes past him in the hall, and finds his face a perfect mask. Something about that is worse than if he'd shown emotion. Her stomach twists — it might be guilt. She notes Vanto’s all-too-easy-to-read expression, too, and hopes instantly that their host hasn’t seen it.

 

“So, you thinking of buying any of them?” Greasy asks when they’re settled back into his office.

 

“I have a few more questions, I’m afraid,” says Arihnda, who is waiting for Yularen to comm her back.

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Yes. Do you normally move whatever product comes available to you, or do you take special orders?”

 

Greasy’s eyes narrow with suspicion again. “Little of both.”

 

“What kind of special orders do you do?”

 

“Why don’t you tell me what you have in mind?”

 

Arihnda smiles, carnivorous. “And risk my clients’ privacy without knowing if you can deliver? Hardly.”

 

“Yeah. What kinda clients ya got, anyway?” Greasy asks, leaning back in his chair.

 

“The kind that value their privacy,” Arihnda says patiently. “And the kind that are willing to spend a great deal of money to indulge their tastes.” She lets her eyes flicker over him, bored and haughty and judgemental, like a proper topclass Coruscanti. “Human trade is difficult in the Core,” she observes casually. “You said you had some humans in term contracts. Where do they come from?”

 

“Around,” he answers lazily. “Mostly Outer Rim and Wild Space types who couldn’t afford to relocate to the Core on their own. Sold a couple years’ service to come here.”

 

“What are their ages?”

 

“Mostly adult. Coupla kids.”

 

“Contracted out together?”

 

His mask of disinterest slips a little, and a bitter, sour humor flashes through. “Desperate parents don’t read fine print too well, y’know what I mean? They’re contracted out where they’re profitable.”

 

“Of course,” says Arihnda, feeling something weird flutter in the pit of her stomach. “I understand completely.” And she does, of course, understand the logic of it. In his position she would likely take the same view of matters. But the weird flutter is still there, as if her lunch were trying to come back the wrong way.

 

“You got a client lookin’ for something on the young side?” he says, narrowing his eyes and leaning forward.

 

Which strikes Arihnda as a little too interested of a question not to be backed by wares on site, or easy to hand. It’s also a difficult legal grey area: servants, especially indentured ones, have few if any rights. But humans are protected by Human High Culture legislation, and the Breeding Incentive programmes offer legal complications, too. If he's doing something just a little too far out of line, they won't have to wait for Yularen's intervention at all. She can let Thrawn take over, or better yet have Vanto pin Greasy to the wall and shout in his face until he gives up his entire operation. Vanto would probably enjoy that. It might improve his view of her, as well.

 

She sits just a little straighter, and tries to master the feeling in her gut. “If I did?” she says.

 

His eyes are still narrow. He pushes his hair back from his forehead. “Might be able to help you out,” he says, too casually.

 

“I might be interested in that,” says Arihnda, mirroring his tone. She keeps her attention very studiously on him, and forces herself not to glance at Thrawn or Vanto, forces herself not to bend over and clutch her stomach.

 

“Yeah,” he says, eyeing her closely. “Yeah, thought you'd be looking for something like that.”

 

Arihnda favors him with another predatory smile. “Am I so easy to read?”

 

“Maybe. We’ve got a coupla topclass sorts that like their weird little fetishes. You're exactly the kinda person they hire to do their dirty errands. So, kids under ten run you about thirty-five thousand credits a head. We’ll do a special order, rustle you up something that matches a specific description — boy, girl, blonde, brunette — for a little extra. Special order usually comes out to around fifty thousand credits a head. I’ll show you some of the stuff we're moving now, all special orders earmarked for special buyers, and you decide if you wanna ask us to find what you boss is after.”

 

“Perfect,” Arihnda says. “I feel like we're going to do some very good business together.”

 

“Yeah,” he says noncommittally, punching a button on his desk. A narrow panel of wall slides open behind him. “There're down there. Take a look.”

 

Arihnda hesitates a second, then rises.

 

There is a narrow little stairway leading into a dark, dank, reeking pit, and Arihnda has to go about halfway down the rickety metal stairs before the occupants of the pit become clear in the dim light. There are little benches on each wall, sides and back, three human children huddled on each: nine gaunt little waifs with wide, empty eyes staring up at her from their dank oubliette, stick-limbed and monstrous, vacant expression long since pushed past hope or pain.

 

Flashes of hot and cold run over Arihnda’s skin. Her palms turn clammy and her mouth goes dry, and she has the powerful urge to turn and run: to flee, silent and quick, until she is as far from this sight as her body can take her. To go, and go, and never look back.

 

She swallows very forcefully, and squeezes her hands into fists so tight her nails dig into her palms, the pinpricks of pain like beams of light leading her back to reality.

 

“Yes,” she says, turning on her heel and marching crisply back up the steps and into the light. “I see. And who are they earmarked for?”

 

“For the kinda people you work for, I guess. So is that the sort of thing your clients are looking for?”

 

Arihnda has to take another breath. She hopes it isn’t too obvious, not as obvious as the worry and anger Vanto’s trying so poorly to hide, or even as obvious as the raised eyebrow Thrawn has finally permitted himself.

 

“Yes,” she says, “I think it might be. Where do you get them? You understand we don’t want anything —”

 

“We keep our sources and methods confidential,” he says with a kind of mocking relish over the pretentious vocabulary, “for everyone’s protection, y’understand?”

 

“Of course,” says Arihnda. “Of course, I understand comple—” She nearly gasps when the comm buzzes against her ribs. She fishes into her jacket pocket for it so fast she almost fumbles. “Excuse me, one moment. Hello?” Yularen’s voice a hurried whisper in her ear: _Their labor contracts are all forgeries. Capitol police and an ISB squad are on the way. Can you all get out of there?_ “Excellent, wonderful news! Yes, that’ll be no trouble. I’ll see you soon, darling.” She disconnects, and turns brightly to their temporary business partner. “Well,” she says, “as I was saying, I understand completely. And I think we can do business together. Just one more question — how do you make sure your operations aren't traceable back to your clients?”

 

“That's your job. We usually sell to a middleman like you. It's up to you to scrub the contracts and sales history if your client has a bug up their butt.”

 

“I see. Thank you so much. And what time can I find you tomorrow?”

 

“Come back any time after 1700 standard.”

 

“Perfect. I’ll see you then.”

 

And then, heart hammering in her throat, Arihnda sweeps out of the room. She hears Thrawn and Vanto following behind her: a shuffling of chairs and rustling of fabric. She flexes her hands as she walks, trying to bring some semblance of calm back into her body. They make it to the bar, where the ugly display is still on stage, making Arihnda's stomach churn again, and they are almost to the door before things finally flip sideways.

 

The part-Drusselian bouncer comes in the door, giving them a glance and then hurrying past.

 

It’s too soon for the ISB to be here, Arihnda thinks, but perhaps this operation has perimeter scouts, or even inside men? The latter, she thinks, is most likely — someone in the capitol police who can place one convenient call at the exact same time that tactical-response units are deployed…  

 

Arihnda, now glad that the bar is full of people with no interests beyond the show on stage, has quickened her own pace, and is half-again the remaining distance to the door. But Thrawn has paused, and Arihnda turns on her heel and sees that he is turning his head to follow the path of the bouncer. Vanto, too, has gone quite still, as if waiting for a cue.

 

“I have copies,” Arihnda hisses, a little desperately. She would like to get _out_ before the violence starts — and she is sure that when the ISB and the capitol police arrive, there will be violence.

 

“Of the files, yes,” says Thrawn softly. “Not of the witnesses.” He turns on his heel, following in the wake of the bouncer. Vanto, giving Arihnda one last quick look, starts after him.

 

And Arihnda, after a frozen half second, takes off at a brisk clip after them. She catches up to Vanto, who is just behind Thrawn, a moment before Thrawn reaches the door.

 

His presence sparks the keg.

 

She can just see the first few moments of chaos as she slips through the door after Vanto: Greasy looks up, swears, and slams his hands on the controls on his desk. From inside the hidden pit, there’s a loud rush of something that sounds like water, followed by piercing gasps and shrieks of terror. Water, Arihnda realizes, like you find in certain types of garbage disposals. The room was probably repurposed from that. The door to the pit slams shut, muting the noise. That room will fill, Arihnda thinks, and then flush into Coruscant’s labyrinthine waste system, taking the children — the _witnesses —_ down forever into the dark.

 

Arihnda hears commotion from the bar, noise in the hall behind them. “The hall, Ensign,” says Thrawn, heading for Greasy as the bouncer heads for him.

 

Vanto whirls on his heel, shoulders past Arihnda back to the door, smacks the control panel, pulls a holdout blaster from somewhere in his jacket as the durasteel pane whisks shut, and then blasts the panel to a smoking ruin. There’s shouting and banging on the door in the hall, but apparently the it’s sturdy enough to hold.

 

The confrontation between Thrawn and the bouncer happens almost in the time it takes Arihnda to turn her attention from the door back to the desk. Putting himself between Thrawn and Thrawn’s prey is doubtless his worst choice in a life that has probably been a string of bad choices. The worst, because it is the last. He lunges at Thrawn, who seems to move with him, and through him, and then past him with same the strange, circular motions Arihnda half-remembers from his visit to Yinchom and his bout with H’sishi: he pulls his cloak off and spins it around the bouncer as they spin together, folding the man’s own forward momentum back around him and turning it into inexorable gravitational force that carries him back and down towards the desk. Thrawn doesn’t seem to slam the man’s head into the corner of the desk so much as he directs his fall there, driving his temple into the sharp corner of the desk with the sure and practiced guidance of a single hand. There is a bizarre, wet-sounding crunch, and the bouncer’s limp body slides to the floor with a dull thud. Thrawn is already around the desk before the bouncer’s ruined skull has come to rest on the cheap, dirt-stained tiles. Arihnda stares at the corpse, a sturdy being reduced to utter destruction in mere seconds, for only a moment.

 

Then she looks up. Thrawn is looming over Greasy.

 

Greasy has a blaster in his hand, but Thrawn ignores it. Vanto is heading for the desk, his own blaster at the ready.

 

“Open the door,” Thrawn says.

 

Greasy make a snap decision: drops his eyes from Thrawn, who is standing within arm’s reach of him, to the desk, drops the nose of the blaster in the same instant, and fires.

 

On what must be long-ingrained instinct crafted by training, Vanto’s grip tightens on his blaster and he fires almost in the same moment.

 

And in that moment, Thrawn’s arm flashes out: his hand snaps around Greasy’s neck and he slams the man backwards into the wall. Vanto’s shot misses, possibly because of Thrawn. Perhaps that had been Thrawn’s intent. Or perhaps Thrawn had simply reached the end of his patience. Greasy collapses to the floor in a silent heap.

 

The bolt of plasma fired at the desk has left a smoking crater in the midst of the controls. The door barring the children’s death trap whines and bangs a little in its frame for a moment as if is experiencing some terror or confusion of its own, and then its servos go dead.

 

In the silence, Arihnda can still hear the rushing of water and the wailing of children, though the latter has taken on an unnerving, fatalistic edge. She snatches her comm out of her pocket, to tell Yularen to forget stealth and send someone immediately, quickly, this second now — and finds no signal. She looks at the smoking panels on the desk. If she ran a business like this, she asks herself, and had a panic button to destroy contraband, would she trigger signal-dampers with it? Of course, she knows, she would.

 

She knows the effort will be wasted, but she checks the desk more closely, just in case: runs her fingers over the cracked, scorched computing mechanisms as if she can bring them back to working order just by wishing — and then she abandons the effort, and turns her attention back to Thrawn.

 

Thrawn has stepped to the door, and is running his fingers over the paneling of the frame. “Ensign Vanto,” he says without turning form the door.

 

“Yes, sir,” says Vanto, tucking his blaster away and going quickly to the door.

 

“I believe we can force the door if we can remove some of these panels,” Thrawn is saying. “But I would like to avoid using blaster on the door, given what is behind it.”

 

“Right,” says Vanto turning around to scan the room.

 

Arihnda has taken the point too, and is also scanning the filthy shelves. She imagines they do all their own maintenance here. There should be — “Here,” she says, crossing a room and climbing on the bottom shelf to reach something just above the stretch of her fingertips. It’s a sort of crowbar. “Here,” she says again, turning and handing it to Vanto, who has come up behind her.

 

“Thanks,” he says, taking it out of her hand. “See if you find anything else, okay?”

 

It doesn’t strike Arihnda until she’s onto the second shelving unit that she’s… done something very much like obeying an order. She pauses for a brief second. She can hear Thrawn and Vanto working on the door. Only it hadn’t… She turns to look at them. They are both tightly focused on their task, prying loose a bit of the doorframe. Thrawn directing, Vanto following direction: Vanto works the crowbar beneath the edge of the frame, and loosens the panel enough for Thrawn to get a grip on it, and pull. It hadn’t really felt like being ordered around, or like being obedient.

 

It had been a little like being with her father at the mine.

 

She turns back to the shelving unit, goes over it as quickly as she can, finds nothing, and moves to the next unit. Three out of four. She finds a bolt-cutter. Maybe not useful. Fourth unit: another crowbar.

 

“Thanks,” says Vanto when she brings it over.

 

From beyond the door she can still hear water, and shrill, broken sobbing. The witnesses — who are also the contraband — will be long gone if they have to wait for emergency services to open the door. The ISB will be able to prove possession of forged documents, but they will never know where the the children came from, if they were properly purchased or instead kidnapped, or who supplied them.

 

On the floor, Greasy makes a noise.

 

“Tie him up, would you?” says Vanto.

 

“With what, exactly?” Arihnda asks.

 

Thrawn pauses and takes a pair of extremely lightweight stuncuffs from his pocket. “These should do,” he says briefly, before turning back to the paneling.

 

When Arihnda’s done cuffing Greasy, she stands to see that Thrawn and Vanto have pried enough of the enough of the door-frame loose for the edge of the door to be visible.

 

Thrawn runs his fingers along that edge, as if looking for a place with a good grip. “Ensign Vanto, the crowbar.” Vanto hands it over, and Thrawn wedges it in, digging it behind the edge of the door with force. Then he pauses half a moment, and plows all his weight against, it, as if he could shove himself completely through the wall.

 

The door gives. There is a gap of perhaps two centimeters. The sounds of water and of fear tear out of the open space like a swarm of beasts.

 

Thrawn readjusts the crowbar, and pushes again. There is now a gap of maybe five centimeters. He tries one more time, gets about another centimeter for his efforts. The space is too wide now for the crowbar to be much further use — but it’s wide enough that he can put his hands around the edge of the door, which he does. He seems to search for a comfortable grip, and he experiments a little with the placement of his feet, too. Then he takes a breath, braces against the floor, and shoves.

 

Or rather, pushes.

 

The door gives, but barely. Just far enough for him to change his position a little, to wedge a foot against the door frame.

 

And then he pushes again: silent, the only signs of strain in the sharp outline of his figure and the painstakingly minute movement of the door which is, bit by bit, opening.

 

Arihnda is mesmerized in a way that is not entirely pleasant. The dead man on the floor. The quick and casual way he’d thrown the other man against the wall. This. _How are you feeling? - Fine. - Are you?_ Maybe he’s right to worry about that, she thinks. Maybe he’s right to be concerned.

 

Maybe she should be, too.

 

And then the door to the hall begins to rattle.

 

“Guard the door,” says Thrawn to no one in particular.

 

“I’ve got it,” says Arihnda, glad of a distraction. She pulls her holdout blaster from her hip. Not perfect, but better than nothing.

 

“Ensign Vanto, let us see if we can not deliver our witnesses into the light.” Which Arihnda thinks is a bit of a stupid line, but she’s got more important things to worry about.

 

“Sir,” says Vanto, presumably getting ready to squeeze past Thrawn whenever the gap in the door is big enough — and then with an ugly, keening whir, the servos in the doorframe whir to life again.

 

Thrawn makes a short sound, and then a longer, lower one, pushing back hard against the door. “Timeliness, Ensign,” he grinds out.

 

Arihnda turns to watch as Vanto tries to push past through the partly-open door, which is itself partly blocked by Thrawn. Even she can tell that won’t work

 

Vanto makes a frustrated, irritable noise. Then he turns, crosses the small room: “You do it,” he says to Arihnda.

 

Arihnda stares at him.

 

Her father had never let her _work_ in the mine, but he’d certainly taught how not to _die_ in one: lesson after lesson of what to do, and what not to do, just in case, in case something ever happened while she was on a tour or performing an inspection. And going down into a tight, cramped box with no exit and water rushing in had certainly been high on the list of things not to do.

 

“I can not hold this door indefinitely,” Thrawn says, voice tight with something like impatience.

 

Arihnda is still staring at Vanto. _I don’t want to drown_ doesn’t seem like the right thing to say. So instead, she blurts out the first thing that leaps into her head: “I don’t much care for children.”

 

And now it’s Vanto’s turn to stare at her: wide-eyed with bald-faced incredulity. And then he says with furious disbelief: “You’ve gotta be kriffing — enough that you’re gonna let them _die?”_

 

Which is exactly the sort of thing her mother would call “a kick in the pants.”

 

“No,” says Arihnda hurriedly, “no, of course not! Of course not.” She looks quickly between the door to the hall and the door Thrawn is braced against, its whirring servos fighting him for every micrometer. They can’t force her to do what needs to be done, of course, but Vanto’s reaction has reminded her of what it will cost her to refuse. She can not imagine Thrawn’s regard for her would survive it. So down into the pit she will go. “Here,” she says to Vanto, “take my blaster. I won’t need it.”

 

She crosses the room, and pauses for only a moment beside Thrawn. He is braced against the doorframe, pushing hard against the door, face tense with ferocious concentration, breathing strained, body taught. He meets her gaze.

 

“I —” she starts, but she can’t seem to say anything else.

 

There is a moment of silence where he only looks at her, as inscrutable has he has ever been over and over the past two days, and then, still holding her gaze, he says: “Ensign Vanto, is there rope or cord in one of those shelves?”

 

It only takes Vanto a moment to find something suitably long. There’s another awkward minute where Thrawn and Vanto exchange terse words and Vanto ties one end of the the rope around Arihnda’s waist and — after finding no other suitable anchor, and at Thrawn’s direction —  ties the other end around Thrawn.

 

There’s another sound from the hall, and Vanto turns back to the door. “Might wanna hurry,” he says as he does.

 

Arihnda still doesn’t move. The truth is, she doesn’t really trust the rope.

 

“You will be fine,” Thrawn says in response to her silence. And then with with utter seriousness he adds: “I will not let you die.”

 

She holds his gaze a moment longer. Then she nods, and squeezes herself past him, wriggling through a space almost too small for her to fit.

 

She takes her bearing on the top step of the rickety stairs. The light steaming in around her is enough to illuminate the torrent of water filling the small space. The nine children are all standing on benches now, clutching at each other, whimpering and making other sounds that grate on Arihnda’s ears and make her feel a little ill.

 

And then she remembers a detail she’d noticed before, when she’d been shown the room for the first time. The reason they haven’t started climbing the stairs on their own.

 

“I need the bolt-cutters,” she yells over the rush of the water.

 

“Ensign Vanto?” says Thrawn.

 

“Yeah, got it,” he answers, and a moment later he’s poking his head, arm, half a shoulder, which is pretty much all of him that can fit past Thrawn, into the opening of the door. “Got it?” he asks.

 

“Yes,” says Arihnda, taking the bolt-cutters from him, “thanks.”

 

“Yeah,” says Vanto, disappearing again.

 

Arihnda has to gather herself for a moment before she goes down the stairs.

 

The water is freezing, and it whirls with force around her legs. She shudders when she takes her first step into it, then forces herself to climb down another step, and another, until her feet are on the floor. The water is all the way up to her hips, dragging the rope weirdly around behind her and tearing at her body like greedy hands.

 

When the floor opens, as at some point it will, she is sure those hands will pull her into oblivion.

 

She takes a shuddering breath, and looks up at the child in front of her. It’s a bony, bird-like human with blonde hair turned almost russet with dirt. It looks like a core-worlder, Arihnda thinks: delicate, pale looks from some place like Chandrilla, maybe. It is maybe two years old. It’s got a finger shoved in its mouth, and tear-streaks on its face, and is staring at her in the silent paralysis of terror.

 

“Hello,” she says. “I’m — we’re here to get you out of here, I think. Do you understand?”

 

It nods at her. Which — fine. That’s fine. She always finds children difficult to communicate with, unnerving and strange, but they seem to understand each other alright in the moment.

 

“Alright,” she says, taking a breath and wading forward. “Alright,” she says again, more to herself than anyone else. She reaches under the water, which is almost up to the child’s knee despite its standing on the bench, and feels for the chain at its ankle. By touch, she fits the beak of the bolt-cutter over the chain-link closest to its ankle.

 

She adjusts her grip on the bolt-cutter, takes a deep breath, and brings her hands together forcefully. It’s an action that starts in her shoulders and takes all her strength, but it works: the blades crack through the chain-link. Or through half of it. She takes two breaths, looks up once at the child, and then repeats the action for the other half of the link. And then she stops.

 

The water is still swirling around her, rushing and rising bit by bit.

 

She looks between the stairs and the child. She sets her jaw.

 

“Come here,” she says to the child, reaching for it, bolt-cutters still in one hand. “You have to get to the stairs, come here.”

 

It hesitates a minute, then leans forward, reaches for her in turn, and leans against her, wrapping its arms around her neck.  It’s weird, she thinks, unnerving and bizarre, how… different… children’s bodies are. How very small and fragile. She’s always found popular pet animals a little unsettling for the same reason: so breakable. Arihnda closes her arms around the child, still holding the bolt-cutter with one hand, and lifts it awkwardly off the bench, and turns for the stairs.

 

Wading with a toddler clinging to her is more difficult, and it takes her almost twice as long to cross the room this time. She puts it on the stairs and it stands obediently, but doesn’t climb. “Go on,” she says, giving it a little push and pointing, “go on, you have to go up there.”

 

It looks up the stairs and then back at her and then reaches for her again. “Stop that,” she snaps, batting its hands away. “Go up the stairs.” She points again.

 

Still no movement.

 

“A little help, please,” she yells irritably up the stairs.

 

“Ensign Vanto,” calls Thrawn.

 

A moment later Vanto is visible again. He seems to take the point pretty quickly. “Hey,” he says, reaching one hand towards the child, “hey, it’s okay. Can you hear me?” He beckons with his hand. “Come on, it’s okay. Come on. One step at a time, you can do it, that’s it, come on, I’ve got you —”

 

Arihnda turns back to the room as soon as the child takes the first step up towards Vanto. She is vaguely worried that the toddler will trip, or get tangled in the rope. but she can still hear Vanto talking in the background, and she hasn’t got time to waste fussing. The water is just above her hips now.

 

Thankfully the other children are a little older, and have seen the template of this pattern. Things go a little faster: Arihnda clips the chain, drags a child to the stair, and lets Vanto coax it up the stairs, and pull it past Thrawn and into the dry, at least temporarily safe room above.

 

The water climbs as she works. She puts a third child on the stair before the water reaches her waist. She is trying to go in order of their age, or perhaps it’s just in order of which ones look strongest: the littlest first, the rest for last. They all become strangely silent as she works, only sniffling and whining from time to time. She supposes vaguely that adults have mostly beaten almost anything but silent acquiescence out of them — which is, perversely, to her benefit at the moment.

 

Two more, and the water is just to her breasts.

 

Two more, and the water is to her shoulders.

 

There are two more left. She feels for the chain on the smaller of the two, clips it, and pulls it off the bench. The water is around her neck, splashing against her skin when the child wraps its arms there.

 

“One more,” she yells to Vanto.

 

She is wading on her tip-toes, fighting the buffeting of the freezing water, which whorls around her chin and splashes in her face and drags at the rope and makes her fight for balance. It is coming in from four jets at least, she thinks. The last child is pressed against the wall, trembling, the water almost to its chest.

 

“Almost done,” she says through the chattering of her teeth. “You’re the last.”

 

She can’t reach down far enough to feel the chain. She has to take a deep breath and plunge her head under the water to try and find it. No luck. She comes up, takes another breath, tries again. The weight of the bolt-cutter helps steady her. One cut. She comes back up. More air, a gasping breath, and down again. Everything done by touch. Second cut. Up for air again. She drops the bolt-cutters, and comes back up treading water. The water is up to the child’s shoulders. It’s staring at her, terrified, but still too cowed to reach for her.

 

Probably she should explain what’s coming next, if she doesn’t want to be drowned by a panicking child. “I’m going to swim to the ladder with you,” she says. “You need to let me carry you. Just… Can you turn around and lay back for me?”

 

The child, who is maybe six, seems to think about that, then nods, and does it. Arihnda loops an arm around its middle, and it clings tight to her hand and wrist. She pushes off against the bench, and uses her free arm to help pull them through the water while she kicks. It takes perhaps fifteen seconds to get to the rickety steps, but it feels a great deal longer.

 

“Alright,” she says clutching at cold metal beneath the water when they reach the steps, “alright, up you go.” She helps it find its feet on the stair and gives it a little shove. “Go on. Up you go.”

 

“Come on,” Vanto says from above, motioning for the kid. “Come on, I’ve got you.”

 

Arihnda gets her own feet under her, and begins to climb as well. Just above her, Vanto pulls the child past Thrawn. Arihnda reaches the top step and puts one foot on the solid floor, and begins to wiggle through the minute space between Thrawn and the doorframe when the water reaches whatever level it has been seeking.

 

The floor at the bottom of the pit gives way. The step beneath her foot falls away, the stairs suddenly folding flat against the wall. The rope around her waist, sagging in the water, tangles on the rail of the stairs and drags heavy and hard at her waist. She gasps so loudly the sound almost resembles a shriek and she clutches at the only support she has: Thrawn.

 

With a tremendous sound, the water is sucking away into the gaping maw where the floor once was. The benches, released to fall flat just like the steps, bang against the wall as the water falls past them, and there is a weird muted clattering as the chains, unmoored from anchors in the wall that must be on the same mechanism as the floor and the benches and the stairs, writhe with each other and fall into the sewage system with the water.

 

Thrawn is still wedged against the door, straining to keep it open. Arihnda is balanced precariously on the ball of one foot, gasping and clinging to Thrawn and trying to pull herself over and past him, but she’s trapped by the rope. Arihnda looks into the room, and meets Vanto’s eyes.

 

He reaches for Arihnda, but she can not bring herself to pry a hand loose from Thrawn. Her fingers are wound into his clothes with a white-knuckle grip.

 

“Ensign Vanto,” Thrawn says tersely.

 

“I know,” says Vanto, pushing at a child who is clinging to his leg, and stepping close enough to grab Arihnda’s arm, “I know.” Then to Arihnda he says: “Can you untie the knot?”

 

“I —” she can’t bring herself to let go of Thrawn, to loosen the one hand that is still clinging to his shirt. She shakes her head.

 

“Okay,” says Vanto. “Okay, wait.” He lets her arm go and she almost curses at him for it — but she’s not quite in a full-blown panic, and as long as she can keep a grip on Thrawn she’s safe.

 

Vanto comes back only a few — excruciating —seconds later with a knife. “I’ll hold you, you cut the rope, then I’ll pull you through, okay?”

 

She nods, quick and tense, and, Vanto takes hold of one of her arms. Slowly, Arihnda pries her grip loose from Thrawn’s shirt, and, hand beginning to shake a little, takes the knife from Vanto. She digs it in between her waist and the rope, and tries to cut straight through; the rope is too heavy, or the knife too dull, and she starts to saw instead. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven… she loses count of the times the blade scrapes against the ropes until it gives way. The shock of the changing gravity, the sudden lack of the heavy pull on her middle, makes her balance give and she almost loses her footing: she drops the knife in surprise and yelps, and Vanto grabs her second, suddenly flailing arm.

 

“Got you,” he says, starting to pull on her.

 

Arihnda digs her fingers into her sleeves and tries to push against the floor as if that will help, but she can’t get any leverage of her own. All she can do is cling, and be pulled.

 

Vanto shifts his weight back, and Thrawn, making a sound of unmistakable effort, leans harder into the door, pusing it just another centimeter or so, and Arihnda comes free and falls into the room, collapsing on top of Vanto,  who loses his balance and falls backwards as he pulls her into the room.

 

She rolls to the side immediately, pushing herself up to look for Thrawn. He gives the door one last shove that serves to build momentum for his own quick spin out of the doorway, and she finds her breath catching in terror as she watches him move, afraid suddenly that he won’t move fast enough, will be caught in the door, will be hurt —

 

He isn’t, and Arihnda takes another gasping breath and lets it out as Thrawn falls back against the door and leans there, perhaps catching his own breath. He locks eyes with Arihnda for a moment, just a moment, just long enough to see that she is still whole, and then turns his attention elsewhere — as does she.

 

Beside Arihnda, Vanto is getting up, also turning this attention back to the hall door, outside of which there is a very unnerving quiet.

 

“Has the ISB arrived, Ensign Vanto?” Thrawn asks.

 

“I think so, sir.”

 

Arihnda presumes there was a fight in the hall, audible to Thrawn and Vanto, but not to her above the rush of the water and her own rising fear.

 

There is a knock on the door, and then a stern voice says: “Imperial Security Bureau, open this door.”

 

“I am afraid we will require your assistance with that,” Thrawn says loudly, crossing the room with a slight stiffness and faint unevenness in his gait. “I am Commander Thrawn of the Imperial Navy; I have with me Ensign Eli Vanto, also of the Imperial Navy, one prisoner, and ten civilians, nine of whom are children in need of medical attention. The door is jammed. I await your instructions.”

 

There is a long silence, then the voice comes again. “Commander, Colonel Yularen told us you’d be gone by the time we arrived.”

 

“We were delayed, unfortunately. And as I have said, the door is jammed, or we would be more cooperative. But I am happy to provide any assistance possible. Let us know what you require.”

 

More silence, then: “We’re going to blast the door. Take your prisoner and your civilians to the far right of the room — your right, if you’re facing the door. Lay everyone facedown, hands on the backs of your heads. Including the children. We’re sending in a clearing team first so don’t jump when we come in or you’ll get shot. Clear enough?”

 

“Perfectly. And may I know to whom I am speaking?”

 

“Lieutenant Rell Kar’eme, Imperial Security Bureau Tactical Agent.”

 

“Thank you Lieutenant Kar’eme. I shall signal you when ready.”

 

The children are shivering, shaking, as is Arihnda herself, but Vanto manages to coax them all into laying down, explaining again and again what is about to happen — coaxes all except the gold-headed toddler, who latches onto Arihnda again.

 

“Yes,” she says, patting it on the head awkwardly, “hello.” The child buries its face in her leg. “Vanto,” she says, looking at him, “could you…?”

 

He gives her a baleful look and says “Can’t you handle one of them?”

 

Her mouth twists angrily, but she says, “Of course,” and painstakingly persuades the annoying little thing to get down on the ground like the rest.

 

Thrawn drags the still-unconscious man in handcuffs over with their group. The children flinch and whimper when he comes near, but Vanto shushes them somehow — except for the littlest one, who begins wailing and will not stop. Arihnda thinks it is about to set the others off, so out of pure exasperated desperation, she lays down on the floor beside it and puts one arm on its back and lets it move close against her side. “Be _quiet,_ ” she hisses at it with as much strained kindness as she can muster, and it seems to work because it reduces its tears to aggrieved sniffling and lays obediently on its belly beside her. She can’t see the rest of what is happening, but after a moment Thrawn raises his voice.

 

“I believe we are ready, Lieutenant.”

 

After that things become very loud and momentarily confusing: there is an extremely loud sound, the door thuds to the floor. Smoke fills the room. There is a loud stomping of booted feet, and shouting. Arihnda squeezes her eyes shut and presses her hand hard against the back of the child beside her, who is beginning to cry again. The shouting and the stomping go on for a few seconds more, than there is a little more shouting, and then more regular footfalls.

 

Then soft, even steps, and the same voice they’d heard from the hall: “Which of you is Commander Thrawn?”

 

“I am,” says Thrawn.

 

“Okay, you can get up. Everyone else stay on the ground.” Some sound, probably Thrawn rising to his feet. “This one’s your prisoner?”

 

“Yes,” says Thrawn.

 

“Bell, Creel, get this one out of here,” says Kar’eme. “And where's Ensign Vanto?”

 

“Here,” Vanto says.

 

“Okay, you get up too.”

 

Arihnda, who still has her face pressed to the ground and a sniffling toddler pressed to her side, would also like to get up. But the presence of men with guns and a willingness to use them does wonders, she is finding, for her sense of patience. Kar’eme, Thrawn, and Vanto are still talking. She gathers that medics have been called, that Yularen is on his way, and, finally, that all the civilians should feel free to sit up.

 

The children are quiet when they sit up, quiet and staring and clinging to each other, and it’s Vanto, again, who seems to become in charge of them all.

 

In charge of all the but one who insists on clinging to Arihnda, that is. It makes her feel claustrophobic, the thing clinging to the fabric of her pant leg. And it makes her feel pinned down, like she can’t insinuate herself into the conversation with Kar’eme, and keep playing her part, while she’s tethered to a toddler.

 

And then Thrawn does something interesting: he comes over to her, and takes charge of the child. Perhaps he sees that Arihnda’s mood is ratcheting up towards something ugly. Perhaps he knows it is the convenient way to bring her back into the conversation. Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps. It doesn’t really matter. He sees her, sees that she is stuck, and comes across the room and, after giving Arihnda a brief and serious look, lowers himself on to one knee before the child.

 

“Hello,” he says to it in a polite, soothing tone. “Do you recognize me? Do you know I held the door open for you? Good. Would you like to come with me for a moment? I should like to introduce you to Lieutenant Kar’eme. Will that be agreeable?”

 

And probably the child doesn’t really understand the words, but it certainly seems to understand the tone, and Thrawn’s outstretched hand. It almost takes a step towards him, then pushes itself closer to Arihnda and looks up at her, then back at Thrawn, then back at her. She pushes its shoulder, as gently as she can. “Go,” she says, “go on, he’s fine.” And a little reluctantly, it obeys.

 

“Thank you,” says Thrawn politely, when it takes his hand. And then he says: “I am going to pick you up now. Is that alright?”

 

The child nods, and Thrawn loops a hand under its rear and stands, holding the child against his side. It folds its little hands into his shirt front and hangs on, and Thrawn stands and turns his attention to Arihnda.

 

“We should be prepared to speak to Colonel Yularen. I will take responsibility for going outside the parameters of our initial assignment.”

 

“It was my idea —”

 

“And I will see you recieve appropriate credit for today’s successes. You did quite well. But it would be better for the Colonel to think this detour was taken under my aegis. You understand why, do you not?”

 

“Yes,” says Arihnda, who understands that it is important that she not look completely like a loose canon.

 

“Good,” says Thrawn. “Come and meet Lieutenant Kar’eme. I expect he will have some questions for you before the Colonel arrives.”

 

~*~

 

Kar’eme’s questions are short and to the point, and are cut even shorter by Colonel Yularen’s arrival, which coincides with the arrival of the medics.

 

When Yularen joins them, Thrawn is relieved of the baby, Vanto of the other children, and Arihnda of the necessity of navigating questioning by an unfamiliar intelligence officer. Yularen whisks them away in quite short order.

 

It’s not until they’re in Yularen’s speeder and Arihnda’s adrenaline is wearing off that anyone, herself included, seems to realize that she had been up to her chin in freezing water for some minutes, and that she is still in cold, wet clothes. Thrawn and Vanto both offer her their outer shirts, which might have struck her as comical if she weren’t genuinely chilled to the bone, shivering uncontrollably, teeth chattering. She wraps herself in both shirts, and Yularen pumps the heat in the speeder’s climate system, and directs Vanto to take Arihnda to hospital wing in the Arcology as soon as they arrive. He would like to speak Thrawn in private in any case, he says.

 

~*~

 

The Arcology’s hospital is without doubt the cleanest and most pleasant medical facility Arihnda has ever been in.

 

When the med team is done with her, they let Vanto back past the heavy privacy curtain around her cot, which is, in spite of being on wheels, a studier and more elaborate bed than most.

 

Apparently a med team has had a go at him too, because his dirt-streaked pants and sweat-stained undershirt have been traded for the same style of soft, antiseptic scrubs Arihnda is wearing, and he looks as dry, warm, and clean as Arihnda herself finally feels. He arrives just as a nurse leaves. She would dearly like a moment to herself, but that's the kind of weakness she’d rather not show in front of him, so when he knits his brow and asks how she's feeling she says she's fine and asks the same question in an almost genuinely collegial tone.

 

“I'm okay, thanks,” he says, pulling the one visitor’s chair next to the bed and sitting down beside her. “I've had better nights — I mean, you know — but I'm okay.”

 

Arihnda didn't think Yularen’s directions implied keeping a hawk-like eye on her until someone more official came to take charge of her, but apparently he’s appointed himself the job. Hopefully she’ll only have to endure this conversation for a couple of minutes and then she’ll be able to go back to her hotel. And hopefully Thrawn will join her there. Nothing that’s happened in the evening has made her feel any kind of desire for sex, but it has all left her wanting rather badly to be held. So she’ll endure this, and then hopefully…

 

With a slight effort of will she composes a friendly enough expression and raises a slightly conspiratorial brow at him. “Have you had worse nights, though?”

 

Eli snorts. “Not really, no.” Then his expression turns serious. “I don't think Commander Thrawn has, either.”

 

Ah, she thinks. So that's what this is. “No?” she says mildly.

 

He seems to chew over his next move for a minute, like he’s deciding what to say. Arihnda feels a stiffening tension in her spine, a rising annoyance in her chest. She locks her jaw, controls her breathing, presses her hands primly against her thighs, and waits.

 

“You know,” he says, tone indicating an attempt at something akin to friendliness, helpful advice, generous collegiality, “I thought you did some really good stuff tonight. I was pretty impressed.”

 

“Were you?” she asks acidly.

 

That sets him back a little. When he speaks again he sounds a little more honest. “By some of it, yeah.”

 

“Why don't you tell me about the rest of it.”

 

Another slight retreat; another uptick in honesty. She can see both in the increasingly sour look on his face. He still looks professional, but that's about it. “Yeah, okay. I wouldn't change what happened, not with those kids in the mix, but I still think it was dangerous to drag us into that. Especially with Thrawn.”

 

She takes a steadying breath, nostrils flaring. “He went along with it.”

 

Vanto considers that. He examines her face without pretense as he does. Then he says: “Yeah, he did.”

 

There's a moment of silence, and Arihnda says: “I fail to see the problem with your superior officer’s judgement, Ensign Vanto. Perhaps you can enlighten me.”

 

There’s a very fast flash of anger across his face, but it’s there and gone in the blink of an eye. And what replaces it is… There's something almost Thrawn-like, Arihnda thinks, tensing suddenly, fingers pressing hard into her thighs, something _distinctly_ Thrawn-like, actually, in the way Vanto sits and thinks her comment over. Something distinctly Thrawn-like in the quiet, speculative neutrality of his face and posture.

 

Then he taps a toe on the floor a couple of times and the illusion is broken.

 

“I’ll bet you ten credits some of those special clients our slimeball friend referenced back there were Moffs,” he says, getting right to the point.

 

“I'm sure some of them were,” she agrees icily.

 

“The last thing the Commander needs is to be in the crosshairs of another one of those. You know what kind of position he's in. You're not stupid. You're not nice, but you're not stupid. And you know what they can do to him.”

 

Arihnda's first reaction is pure emotion. She sits straight up as if a hook lodged in her breastbone had been yanked on and she starts to say: “I would never —”

 

And then she stops.

 

And she narrows her eyes.

 

“What do you mean, _another one_?” she says, suddenly sounding — and feeling — quite predatory.

 

Vanto holds her gaze. “I mean Yularen’s not the only person with an interest in his career,” he says at last, tone a little icy. “Not everyone's interest is good. And if following along with you —”

 

“If following along with me is going to harm him or his career then you’ll be sure he doesn't follow along with me on any future adventures, yes, how very noble of you. Good luck with that, by the way.”

 

He narrows his eyes at her. “Playing games with these people is a bad idea.”

 

“I think I know how to handle myself, thanks.”

 

“Yeah, it's clear you think that.”

 

And now it's Arihnda who narrows her eyes at him. “What's that supposed to mean?”

 

“Just because you try to fit in with them, dress like them, sound like them —”

 

“I'm not trying to fit in, I'm trying to get ahead,” she snaps. “I do what I have to play by the rules of the game. If something’s a problem, I fix it. You might want to think about doing the same thing.”

 

His face hardens — but only for a second. Then it softens again, into something worse than anger.

 

The new expression on his face is pity.

 

It's a kind of pity Arihnda recognizes. She'd seen it on Lothal many, many times. It’s the pity that certain Outer Rim types reserved for former friends and neighbors who had gone off to make their fortunes in the Core, in the Empire, and who had returned with affected manners and paltry gains. It was a kind of condescending pity Arihnda herself had indulged in once or twice, after she’d made her sullen peace with staying on Lothal, before she'd come to Coruscant and learned better. Before she'd learned that being yourself was really, truly not enough.

 

If he says anything else about it, Arihnda thinks, she's going to lose her mind. If he says anything —

 

With a soft simplicity that sounds nauseatingly like compassion, he says: “Fixing is for things that are broken.”

 

For a second, Arihnda’s vision goes almost white with fury. She feels a flash of heat across her skin. Her heart is hammering in her throat, her pulse banging away as if her flesh were an anvil. She curls her hands into fists, and takes several sharp, shaking breaths, and finally steadies herself and says with cold anger: “Fine. You're free to think that. Now tell me: which _kriffing_ Moff were you talking about, specifically?”

 

Vanto’s eyes are narrowed again, but they express a slightly different mood. “Does it matter?”

 

“Yes,” she hisses at him.

 

He gives her another quietly critical look, like he's deciding if she's earned it. Then he seems to make up his mind.

 

“Moff Ghadi,” he says.


	10. An Attitude of Service, Part 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Someone learns something upsetting, and deals with it by doing a truly terrible thing that can never be undone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *****THIS NOTE IS A WARNING*****
> 
> There are a couple other notes at the end but this is all spoiler. If you skip it PLEASE know there's an event in this chapter that I personally think is hugely upsetting and possibly unforgivable.
> 
> And remember: I stole frangipani's "never forget: the Empire is a piece of shit" tag for a reason.
> 
> To be honest with you I'm not sure how to warn for the Bad Thing that happens in this chapter without total spoilers, so I decided to put the spoiler here up top for those who need it. 
> 
> The What It Isn't for those who don't want the full spoiler, in case it's enough warning: I promise it doesn't happen to our main characters, and it's much less graphic than what we saw in the cantina last chapter, and it's not sexual violence -- although it happens to someone who has experienced sexual violence and who talks about some of it (a little obliquely, but you won't miss the point).
> 
> The What It Is for those who want/need the full spoiler: Thrawn murders a sex trafficking victim. It might look a little like an act of mercy. He almost certainly thinks that's exactly what it is. It's not. It's definitely a murder. (Which is a topic for next chapter.)

Moff Ghadi.  
  
The name rings her in ears like a bell. Somewhere beyond the privacy curtain the business of the hospital goes on. Vanto is still looking at her, waiting: an investigator’s expression. Suddenly, Arihnda knows this conversation must stay very, very quiet.  
  
“When?” she hisses, leaning forward.  
  
“When what?” Vanto asks with a little irritability.  
  
“When did you learn about this? About Ghadi? When did it become an issue?”  
  
Vanto narrows his eyes again. And again, his mood is keen rather than annoyed. “Why?”  
  
“Because. I. Asked.” She hisses, each dangerous word low in her throat, clear and distinct like an inversion of a yell.  
  
Vanto’s eyes are still narrowed, brows knit, but in the end he decides to go along with her. “Probably since he joined the Navy.”  
  
Arihnda had a feeling like a premonition: a cold hand around her heart. “And how did you find out? When did you know?”  
  
A tilt of his head, a thoughtful moment. He decides in her favor, again. “I learned when he was promoted to Captain. Ghadi sent, well, somebody like you to try and make some trouble. It didn’t work out for them.”  
  
Hearing his words is exactly like the floor giving way in the pit. And this time, she feels like the water is carrying her away. She feels like she has reached for Thrawn and lost her grip, like the rope has given way, like she is plunging down, in freefall, into the dark.  
  
When he was promoted to Captain. Since before she’d even started training at Yinchom.  
  
Vanto, perceptive, sees something, because he is leaning towards her, frowning. “Hey, you still here?”   
  
“Yes, I'm still here,” she snaps. Ghadi. Since long before she’d come to Thrawn — before she’d put herself in his path as agent of revenge, looking for a little extra firepower. God, how she must have looked. Ghadi sent someone like her — flattering words, she thinks bitterly — and then she’d given Thrawn the chance to send someone right back. Of course Thrawn had been interested in staying close to her — in making sure she was well and truly hooked, and then in managing her. Just like Juahir, really.   
  
Just like everyone she knows.  
  
Her face is hot, burning. She had believed, when she’d been about to leave and handle Ghadi in her own way and he’d made his offer and said it was unrelated — she had believed him, and navigated everything after like a fool — she had believed —  
  
God, she's even been worried if he believed her interest was real.   
  
“Hey,” Vanto says, beginning openly to sound both confused and concerned, “are you —” Then he reaches for her shoulder. “Hey —”  
  
She jerks and smacks his hand away as if it's poisonous.  
  
“I’m fine,” she snaps. Her voice is as icy as it's ever been: one of the more surprising and useful skills she's learned on this miserable meat-grinder of a planet. “I agree with your… assessment. I’ll certainly bear it in mind.”  
  
Vanto is frowning, rubbing his hand like it's been burned. “Look, I —”  
  
“I said I'm fine,” she snarls. She takes a deep breath, then another, slow and controlled, and tries to knit herself back together.   
  
She manages it not a moment too soon, really.  
  
“Ensign Vanto,” Thrawn says, stepping past the privacy curtain and holding out a datacard, “please take this to the Chimaera immediately. I will send you further instruction as soon as is practicable.”  
  
“Sir —” Vanto’s gaze flickers between Arihnda and Thrawn for a moment, with real unease.  
  
“I would like to speak to Miss Pryce in private, for a moment, Ensign. The data card, please.”  
  
For a second, Vanto looks like he is thinking of objecting.  
  
And for a second, Arihnda thinks she might not hold together after all.  
  
It doesn't matter, she tells herself quickly. It doesn’t matter. You still have work to do.  
  
And then, with a near-miraculous surge of self-possession, she turns her attention to Vanto, and catches his flickering gaze. The subtle uncertainty is on his face. She raises her brows, haughty, and gives him a slight nod, as if to say: I’m fine.  
  
Then Vanto, who looks only a little green around the gills, rises, takes the card from Thrawn, and leaves.  
  
“Commander,” Arihnda says as he leaves. Her voice threatens to crack, but it's a very weak threat. “Will Colonel Yularen be joining us, or have you come to take us to him?”  
  
He gives her a slightly long look, then says: “Neither. I have discussed this evening’s events with him, and he feels it would be more effective to talk about them in depth tomorrow. I am here to escort you back to your residence, if the medical staff feel that you are well enough to leave.”  
  
“I'm well enough,” she says, swinging her legs out of the bed. Best get it over with, she supposes.  
  
Thrawn gives her a look up and down as she finds her feet. “Perhaps we should consult —”  
  
“I’m fine.” She takes a breath, and says it more evenly: “I’m fine, Commander. Truly. Let’s go, shall we?”  
  
~*~  
  
The trip back to the hotel, in a cab, is mostly silent.   
  
Sitting beside him, close enough to reach out one hand and touch him, she has to bend all her efforts to keeping herself in hand. As refuge from grief, she tries to turn to anger. She can more or less summon it on command these days, anger enough that she would almost like to rip the speeder apart, piece by piece. And Vanto. And Yularen. And Ghadi. And Juahir. And —   
  
But every time her awareness turns back towards Thrawn, she finds the feeling that comes with it, an ache deep in gut that makes her want to double over and howl, is not remotely like rage.  
  
Thrawn studies her, she can practically feel it, but he doesn’t speak to her. And she, though she has to work at it, does not permit herself to look at him.  
  
Thrawn opens the speeder door for Arihnda when they stop at the hotel and offers her his hand, but she shakes him off, and walks across the frigid, wind-whipped landing pad ahead of him. Coruscant weather control have evidently decided to thrill the populous with a light touch of seasonal cold, so she’s as grateful as she can be for the jacket the medical staff bundled her into before letting her out the door. Thrawn himself is wrapped in another one of those irritating cloaks, but it’s better than his face showing on holocam, Arihnda supposes.   
  
She doesn’t look at him on the way to the room.   
  
She feels his hand brush against her back through the heavy layer of the coat as they enter the suite, but she moves away from him quickly. She tosses the coat on a chair, takes a breath, turns. He has stopped at the end of the entryway, hood of his cloak pushed back, and is studying her.  
  
“Well, Commander,” she asks, voice only a bit brittle, “what do you need?”  
  
He waits what seems an excruciatingly long time before answering.  
  
“I would like to know how you are feeling,” he says at last.  
  
“Fine,” she says, voice turning far more brittle. It is shot through with fine fractures, like spidering veins of stress radiating through a sheet of ice. “I’m feeling fine. All I need is a little sleep, and I’ll be in fine shape to talk to Colonel Yularen tomorrow. Will that be all?” She asks the last question with an exaggerated upward lilt in her voice, and a slight lift in her eyebrows.  
  
He takes another long, awful moment to consider. Arihnda has a bizarre, acute sense-memory of clinging to him not three hours earlier, her hands twisted in his shirt, feeling that if only she could hold on to him she would be safe. And suddenly, horribly, she wants to laugh: how quickly her life changes these days. She feels her breathing turn to a kind of wheeze as she struggles to keep her face composed. It is not really the kind of wheezing that come with laughter, and the distortion that threatens to warp her features is not really related to humor, either. It doesn’t matter, she tells herself. Her breath comes in a ragged whistle through the thin, forced smile on her lips.  
  
“It is understandable,” he says finally, unfastening his cloak, “that you are unsettled by this evening’s events.”  
  
For minute, Arihnda stands in silence. Her thin smile has a weird, rictus quality. Understandable. His tone was one she’d heard from him before, the one he’d used to say This meeting is an act of trust, and I have used the word partners more than once.   
  
“Understandable,” she repeats. She feels like there’s pressure building her head. Feels like there’s an endless, wordless scream, trapped in her throat.  
  
“Indeed, I expected it.” He shrugs the cloak off and tosses it towards the table; it lands mostly on a chair.   
  
If it were close enough, she thinks, she might pick it up just to drop it on the floor. Somehow, that image is perversely funny to her.  
  
“I have arranged for it to be convenient for me to remain,” he continues, “and —”  
  
“Convenient,” she repeats, the word bursting out of her along with a bitter, incredulous laugh. “Convenient.” She laughs again, a bitter, barking kind of sound, soggy with the humiliating emotion that is cracking through her angry control in spite of all her efforts. “Of course, Commander. I imagine it was very convenient for you,” she goes on, almost as if she is not in command of her mouth, her voice rising in tone and pitch, “to find that I’d been strung up by the same Moff who was out to cripple your career.” She takes a shuddering breath.   
  
In the entryway, Thrawn is deathly still.   
  
“Senator Organa called to set a meeting this morning, Commander,” she continues, feeling as though the scaffold of anger she has built to hold herself upright is falling down around her, and that she must outrun it with her words, “which reminds me to ask: were you ever concerned about the nature of my interest in you, or have you only been trying to keep me on the line so you could manage my run at Ghadi personally?”  
  
Thrawn’s expression is utterly unreadable. “I infer,” he says coolly after a moment, “that Moff Ghadi has made attempts to interfere in naval matters with an eye towards damaging me.”  
  
“Oh, you infer it, do you? Well —”  
  
“I am forced to make an inference from your statements because I have no other knowledge of his alleged interest in myself or my career,” Thrawn states flatly over her.  
  
She gives another bitter, barking, watery laugh. Her throat is tight and hot, her eyes are burning, her eyelashes damp. “Don’t you, though?”  
  
He lets that hang a few beats, looking at her evenly before saying, with icy, exacting precision: “No, I do not.”  
  
His words are steady, and calm, and solid as rock.   
  
And for a moment, she wants to believe him.  
  
Then, feeling sick with herself for being so pathetic, she laughs again: an ugly noise. “I’m to believe that?”  
  
Into the new and awful silence, Thrawn says evenly: “You are to believe whatever you wish, I suppose, however insulting it may be to me. In the meanwhile, perhaps you would be so helpful as to enlighten me further about your claims. Perhaps you would tell me where you received this information.”  
  
She snorts, and says: “Vanto, obviously. Where else would I have heard it?”  
  
Thrawn is silent for a moment, frowning. He looks -- the thought starts to tickle at the back of her mind, a horrible sensation, that he seems as though he is truly thinking. As if he is, perhaps, processing new information.  
  
Or perhaps he’s a very good actor.  
  
Still frowning slightly, he says with a serious, thoughtful tone, which seems to be entirely for his own benefit, and not at all connected to her: “I see.”  
  
The horrible tickle at the back of her mind — it’s more of an itch, a sickly, nauseous scratching, like there’s some vermin living there, trying to get in — is growing. It makes her feel seasick, as she stands there in the silence, dizzy and ill like the one time her parents had taken her out on a boat, a present for finishing her first year of school with top marks, she’d been six and she’d started vomiting halfway to the edge of Capitol City Harbor and hadn’t stopped being sick until she was back on land again —  
  
“He spoke to you about this earlier this evening?” Thrawn says. It is only perfunctorily a question.  
  
“Yes.” She says it almost automatically. Her mind is still churning, like a seasick stomach, and the scratching sensation at the back of it is beginning to hurt. He must know. He must know. This can not — can not — be new information for him. Because if it is —  
  
Thrawn goes on: “Do you know when he became aware of this himself?”  
  
“Ah,” she says, taking another deep, steadying breath, reining in the violently ill storm of sentiments inside herself, “he said Ghadi sent someone when you received command of the Thunder Wasp. Sent someone to deliver a threat or make trouble of some kind, I think.”  
  
For a moment, Thrawn’s frown deepens, and then it clears: is replaced by a look of understanding, as if the pieces of a curious puzzle have finally fitted together.   
  
The feeling at the back of her mind is less a scratch and more a rending.  
  
Thrawn smiles: soft, fond, full of keen, happy pride. “Ah,” he says softly, with the quiet satisfaction of newly-earned comprehension, “I understand.”  
  
“He didn’t tell you,” she whispers. Finally, it is not a question. And she really is amazed that she doesn't throw up.  
  
“No,” says Thrawn, still smiling a little. “He did not.” Then his attention seems to come back to Arihnda, and his smile fades. He focuses on her completely now, quite seriously. “That is useful knowledge, to be sure. I will speak to him about it. How was it that he came to offer this information to you?”  
  
“I asked,” she says a little lamely. The realization that has flooded across her mind has tamed the churning there, like oil used to coat the chop of waves. The flatness it leaves behind is almost worse. Shame is beginning to creep in around her, tendrils of it curling about her limbs and middle. She wraps her arms around herself.  
  
“I see,” he says. “And what prompted your question?”  
  
“He thought I was reckless, earlier. He told me so. He said I was risking making you the target of another Moff; I asked what he meant by ‘another.’”  
  
“I see,” he says again. For a moment, the private smile almost touches his mouth again. Then he tilts his head to the side.   
  
He does not look at her in silence for very long, but it is still longer than she would prefer.  
  
Carefully, he says: “Did this news confirm for you a suspicion about me, perhaps?”  
  
“No,” she says, surprising herself by speaking both forcefully and fast, shaking her head and shutting her eyes. “No, it —” She keeps her eyes closed. “No, it wasn’t that at all. Very much the opposite of that.”  
  
A short silence. “Good,” he says softly. Another short silence, then: “And you are relieved to learn that your distress is baseless, I gather?”  
  
Arihnda’s throat tightens again. “Yes,” she manages.  
  
“Good,” he says again, voice even softer than before. There are a few heartbeats of silence, and then he says, gently: “Everything is difficult to trust, I believe is how you put it yesterday.”  
  
Arihnda doesn’t answer that, but she does lift her hand from her throat: reaches for him, groping in the empty air. It is only a second before she feels his hand on hers, grasping as if to pull her to safety, and then his arms are around her, and she is pressed against his chest —  
  
“I apologize, Commander,” she mumbles, tone wrung-out but somehow still sodden, into his shirt-front, “for leaping to such an insulting conclusion. And for what I said to you yesterday.”   
  
“If it is any consolation to you,” he says wryly, “yesterday was less justified, and more insulting.”  
  
She almost laughs, but it comes out watery and wrong. “Let me apologize twice over then,” she says thickly. “I appreciate you being so careful of me, I truly do. I only wish you would tell me more of what you’re thinking, sometimes.”  
  
He grows a little tense against her, then, and there are a few breaths of silence before he says slowly: “You did not discuss your plans for this evening with me.”  
  
“I know,” she says. “I know, but --” I wanted to surprise you, and impress you, and I was making it up as I went along seems like a stupid thing to say, even if it is true. She hiccups a little and takes a deep breath through her nose, and settles on something else that is also true, and less embarrassing: “I know, but I think I should have. I’d like to apologize for that, too.”  
  
He stays silent and tense, for a minute, before tightening his arms very slightly around her. “It seems if you wish to apologize you may certainly so,” he says lightly.  
  
And this time her laugh is a little more real, although it is very short, and still not quite right. Then she sniffles, just once, and says, with the best imitation of humor she can produce: “I apologize for not discussing my plans with you in advance.”  
  
“Indeed. Thank you.”  
  
After that there is a long, long silence, during which Arihnda leans heavily against his chest and feels increasingly as though her legs will give way, and during which he seems to do nothing at all except breathe, and keep her upright. It might almost have been pleasant, if not for the sore, miserable, bruised ache in every fibre of her flesh. It might almost have been pleasant, if not for the events that had printed that ache in her so deeply it goes down to her bones: the terrible events in the back rooms of the cantina, in the horrible dank pit of a holding cell, which are beginning to unfurl, to replay, slowly, horribly, inexorably, in her mind.  
  
She would rather collapse, she feels, than break away from him.  
  
At length, he says: “I must speak to Vanto about our latest package from Yularen.”  
  
Package. The data card. Give you instructions —   
  
To Arihnda, who had not been paying full attention to all of Thrawn’s earlier statements except to be angry at them, it sounds like he’s saying I have to go, and it makes yet another miserable shot of adrenaline surge painfully through her. She clutches him, suddenly, fingers clawing into the back of his tunic, and says, much more shrill than she intends: “Can you do it by holo?” And then, hearing her own tone, she strives to cover it, and does so poorly: “I mean —”   
  
“I will stay,” he says quickly, lifting one of his hands from her back and touching her hair. “I will stay.”  
  
Arihnda turns her face so her forehead is pressed to his chest. “Thank you,” she murmurs.  
  
“Of course.” And after a short moment he adds, as if he wants to be sure she understands what is happening: “I had already planned on that.”  
  
“Ah,” she says. There's a bit of dull, belated realization in it, but mostly she says it because there's a conversational space for a response and she doesn't have the energy for more than that.  
  
And she makes no move to part from him, which after a few minutes forces him to move his hand from the back of her head to her shoulder, and push on her gently while he says: “Perhaps you should go to bed. I will join you shortly.”  
  
Very reluctantly she begins to pull away. And then, because minds run on patterns and because her over-worn mind is beginning to run in circling ruts, her awareness trips awkwardly over his choice of words, and she frowns at his chest and says: “I don't think I’m going to be up for —”  
  
“I of course do not expect you to be,” he says quickly, tightening his hand on her shoulder.   
  
She looks up at him; her vision is not blurry, but she is certainly starting to feel slow and disconnected all over with the toll of the past day, of the night, dragging on her nerves. And he, too, she thinks, looks worn — tired. Like all he's going to want, when he finishes the last task waiting for him, will be to crawl into a comfortable bed and sink deep into sleep.  
  
“Alright,” she says.  
  
She is still standing pressed mostly against him, only her shoulders and neck craned far enough back to let her examine his face. He seems to be examining her, in turn, and he keeps his arm around her waist for a moment longer.   
  
He relaxes his hand on her shoulder, finally, touches her check very gently, and says softly, with a faint motion of his head, like his is pointing toward the bedroom with his chin: “Go rest.” And then he pulls away from her.  
  
She feels a little uneven on her feet, from exhaustion, and has to to rub her face for a second before she can persuade her legs to move, but it's not too far to the bedroom. He turns away from her when she starts walking, and she can hear him in the background, pulling out a chair at the table, settling into it, getting his comm out, comming Vanto.  
  
She stops in the doorway of the bedroom and flips the lights off. The lights answer to voice commands, too, but the panel is just beside her.  
  
The dark reminds her uncomfortably of the horrible pit with the filthy children, and the frigid swirl of water.  
  
She turns the light back on.  
  
Behind her, she can hear Vanto as he offers a greeting, voice a little warped by holostatic. He sounds tired, too, but not quite wrung-out.  
  
She doesn't change out of her soft hospital scrubs, but only kicks off her shoes and pulls off her socks before crawling under the sheets.  
  
The bed is comfortable, dry and warm and safe, but she finds she can’t sleep with the lights on.  
  
And she can't bring herself to turn them off again.  
  
So she closes her eyes and listens to the conversation from the other room.  
  
“I’ve already started looking through it,” Vanto is saying. “I’m not sure all these incidents are related to Nightswan —”  
  
“Indeed it is almost certain they are not, Ensign. Your job is to distinguish signal from noise. In addition to —”  
  
Arihnda lets the voices become mere sound. She doesn't, at the moment, care at all about Nightswan. And she can always catch up on the particulars tomorrow. It's only comforting, at the moment, to hear Thrawn talking — the smooth, steady tones of his voice, the gentle rise and fall of emphasis now and then. Even Vanto’s voice is somehow pleasant, in the background: genuine and well-meaning, despite the wrench he'd thrown at her, which she's fairly sure was unintended anyway. She's feeling curiously forgiving about it all. Probably it's a side-effect of relief, or exhaustion. Possibly it is because she has a weird, deep sympathy for his efforts to look out for a person she — a person cares for, she decides is a fair way of phrasing her feelings. He had only been looking out for a person she cares for. A person she cares for, who seems genuinely to care for her. A person she wants more than anything to trust.  
  
Or maybe she is just growing tired of anger. It's so ready to hand, so easy to draw on, but it seems more and more to leave her emptied out, after. And she feels so tired, now. So emptied out.  
  
Then a change in the tone of the conversation catches her attention: pulls her back like a hook.  
  
It's Vanto who's changed tone. Voice low and serious and concerned — worried — he says: “Sir, can I ask — how is — how's she doing?”  
  
There is a very long pause, and Thrawn says seriously: “As well as can be expected, I believe, under the circumstances.”  
  
Vanto pauses too, and when he speaks again he sounds like someone who has just sighed, and whose tone is only a distant cousin of relief. “Okay, that's good.”  
  
Another short pause and then Thrawn says, gently prying: “Are you concerned for any reason in particular?”  
  
Arihnda is very attuned to what she's hearing now.  
  
“I — just — she seemed —” Arihnda can almost hear the color coming into his cheeks. “She seemed upset.”  
  
“I see,” says Thrawn mildly. “Certainly the evening’s events were distressing.”  
  
“Right,” says Vanto. And then, uncomfortably, he says: “I think I upset her.”  
  
There is a short pause and then, sounding quite reasonable, Thrawn says: “If you feel there is something amiss in your working relationship with Miss Pryce, or if you are bothered for more personal reasons, perhaps you might apologize tomorrow. I expect she would appreciate it.”  
  
“Yes, Sir,” says Vanto — sounding totally wrung-out for the first time.  
  
“If you do not wish to apologize for whatever happened, however, which I expect is also within your rights, I am sure she will manage to carry on just as well. I leave it up to you — so far as I am concerned, anything remaining in this matter is strictly between the two of you.”  
  
“I — yes, Sir.” He sounds less wrung-out suddenly; suddenly on alert.  
  
“However,” Thrawn goes on smoothly, “the next time you become aware of information of the type you shared with Miss Pryce at the Arcology this evening, I must ask that you bring it to my attention immediately.”  
  
There is a pause, and then in a tone rife with embarrassment, Vanto says: “Sir, I —”  
  
“I want you to know that I appreciate your good intent, Ensign,” Thrawn says gently, “but I would prefer not to miss the opportunity to exploit such intelligence in the future. Do you understand?”  
  
“Yes, Sir,” he says. He doesn't sound miserable, really, but… He sounds, Arihnda thinks, sort of like one of Juahir’s students at the dojo when they've had a bad sparring session and are committing future corrections to memory even while their trainer is still going over their mistakes.  
  
And that's somehow more consolation to Arihnda than an apology, even if it's not really about her. Or perhaps it's better because it's not about her.  
  
She stops listening after that. And presumably there's not much more to the conversation, because it's only a short minute later that she hears Thrawn moving around outside, taking off his shoes, and possibly more besides, and rising from his chair, and then padding into the room.  
  
He stops in the doorway. Arihnda has her eyes closed but she hears the pause in his steps, and she isn't really surprised that he knows she's still awake.  
  
“Shall I turn the light off?”  
  
She keeps her eyes closed, frowns, thinks about it. “Could you leave it on? Unless you can't sleep with —”  
  
“I can sleep in all manner of conditions,” he says, walking again. “It is rather a necessary skill in my profession.”   
  
The bed dips, and a minute later she is resting with her head on his chest. He is still in his boxers and undershirt, and he fabric of the shirt is soft against her cheek. The steady beat of his heart and the regular rhythm of his breathing, the warmth of his body, the comforting touch of his hands — on her shoulder, and her wrist — all give her a feeling of safety enough to to let her consciousness bleed at last into exhausted sleep, even with the room brightly and completely lit.  
  
She is — luckily for both of them — too tired even to dream.  
  
~*~  
  
Arihnda has not had enough to drink to become drunk in literally years — at most she has one glass of wine with dinner, and maybe a cocktail if she's out to dinner somewhere nice — so it is a little bizarre to wake feeling brutally hungover, as if she had had been drinking straight liquor for hours the night before.  
  
She is flat on her back, no pillow beneath her head. Her body is stiff and miserable and sore, her head is aching and full of wool, her mouth is sour and dry like old cotton. She groans and tries to dive back down into the comfort of sleep again, but her body, as unhappy as it is, seems very certain that she should stay awake.  
  
Reluctantly, she surrenders, and slowly opens her eyes.  
  
Thrawn is in the bed beside her, less than an arm’s length away, propped up on pillows and reading from her data pad. Again.  
  
She turns onto her side, crooking one arm beneath her head like a pillow. “Hello,” she says. The word sounds as fuzzy as she feels.  
  
“Mm,” he says, not looking up, “good morning.”  
  
She frowns at him. “What are you reading?”  
  
“Messages from Colonel Yularen and Ensign Vanto. I trust you do not mind me logging into my Universal Connection account on your device.”  
  
She frowns a little deeper. “No, that's easy enough to explain. I doubt Yularen would even raise an eyebrow.”  
  
Thrawn snorts softly. “Indeed.” He is still reading.  
  
She keeps frowning at him. Last time she hadn't asked, but — “How did you get my passcode, by the way? Or do you have a boot-loader on a mirco-card or some other ISB tech trick?”  
  
Her equanimity about it is partly informed by her current physical state, but mostly she truly isn’t bothered. It all feels like a natural aspect of the bizarre and complicated circumstances of her life. She really just wants the missing information.  
  
Thrawn apparently finds it all rather natural, too, because he smiles faintly, with real amusement, although he does not remove his gaze from the data pad. “No trick; your passcode was quite obvious. I merely had to guess.”  
  
“Obvious?”  
  
“Many people use a memorable sequence — important dates are very common. Name-days, for instance — or in your case, being from Lothal, birthdays,” he says easily, still reading. “No one is more important to you than your mother, I believe, and no encoding of her date of birth would be easier for you to remember than the one in your homeworld’s native calendar.”  
  
“How —”  
  
“After you used Higher Skies’ funds to secure this lodging, and before our first meeting with Yularen, he had his analysts compile a dossier on you.”   
  
He pauses to tap briefly on the pad, then continues his monologue, eyes still on the screen.   
  
“Naturally,” Thrawn says, “Yularen permitted me to peruse my own copy of your dossier. Your mother’s birthday was included, as was her imprisonment and subsequent release from custody, which coincided with both the transfer of title of your family’s mine to the Empire under the management of the office of Imperial Senator Domus Renking, and your transfer to Coruscant in his employ. Even had I not known the full details from discussing the matter with you, the sequence of events would still have been sufficiently suggestive as to your mother’s importance to your family, and to you particularly, as it is was also suggestive to Yularen as to the circumstances under which you came to Curuscant — he guessed most of it correctly, if you are curious. On the basis of that dossier alone I would likely have been able to guess your passcode.”  
  
She's silent for a minute, thinking that explains how he'd come their conversation on the Thunder Wasp already so well-informed, and then says: “Alright. But how —”  
  
“The first time I spent the night here, I simply grew bored waiting for you to return to bed.” He taps briefly on the screen again. “You do what personnel of the Imperial Navy refer to as ‘bathing like a member of the Elder Houses.’”  
  
Leave it to the military to make thorough showers into personal failings, she thinks.  
  
“My people’s military has a similar term,” Thrawn goes on, “though I doubt it would make much sense to you. At any rate, I wanted something to read. I had no option for that but to borrow your data pad. I thought I would take a guess as to your passcode.”  
  
“I — alright.”  
  
He finally turns his attention to her. He sets the data pad aside and slides down so he is lying on his side beside her, head propped up on one hand, and tucks a few stray hairs behind her ear. “How is this for telling you more of what I am thinking, by the way?” He says, smiling with entertained self-satisfaction.  
  
Arihnda wrinkles her nose at him, and it's only the pain in her head that keeps her from rolling her eyes. “It's an improvement,” she deapans.  
  
Thrawn’s smile widens just a little. “I am glad you think so,” he says, almost smugly enough to make Arihnda want to roll over so her back is to him. Then, his smile becoming sly, he says with good humor: “If I had been wrong about your passcode, I would of course have used the boot-loader. I have several useful micro-cards, and I am rarely without them.”  
  
Arihnda closes her eyes, and makes a kind of grimace. It's as close as she can get to a smile and a laugh. “Of course you do,” she says.  
  
He rests his hand against her cheek. “And I want you to know that I have not read any of your private correspondence.”  
  
Eyes still closed, she frowns and raises her eyebrows skeptically, and realizes she had sort of been operating on the assumption that her whole life had been cracked open for the galaxy to see, and that the only privacy she had left was inside her own head. She can't decide if she's surprised by the realization or not, or if she's surprised to find she doesn't care. Her private correspondence is barely extant, anyway. She's rarely put truly personal matters down in data.  
  
“Haven't you?” She asks  
  
“Of course not,” he says. There is something dangerously like amusement lacing his tone. “The ISB is monitoring it quite closely enough — our private comm traffic excepted, of course. And of course, Yularen has ensured this room is sacrosanct, to protect the meetings he attends here — he also agrees that Ghadi likely has a mole within the ISB. I am surprised you did not ask about that earlier.”  
  
Arihnda’s eyes snap open, and then narrow to slits. Thrawn is, in fact, smiling at her. It’s insufferable.  
  
“Wonderful,” she says sharply, flopping on to her back and closing her eyes again. Then, eyes still closed, she says: “Not a lot of people know the Lothal calendar.”  
  
“Indeed not.”  
  
“How much background research have you done on me?”  
  
“Enough. There was also, naturally, a fact sheet about your homeworld included in the ISB dossier.”  
  
“Naturally,” she echoes. She says nothing else.  
  
There's a silence of about a minute or so, and then he touches her again: first a light brush of his knuckles against the curve of her cheek, and then his hand settling gently on her middle.  
  
“How are you feeling?” he asks softly.  
  
It's an easy question to answer when there isn't anything to say — or rather, when the answer isn't so difficult.  
  
In this case, there is a lot to say, and almost all of it is difficult. She winces a little and, keeping her eyes closed, she takes a slow breath, holds it, exhales slowly, half-shrugs, and finally says: “Tired, mostly.”  
  
“I see,” he says.  
  
The room is perfectly still. His hand is perfectly still, too: none of the absent, fond-feeling motions she has grown used to. It feels heavy on her stomach, like an anchor, holding her in place.  
  
She opens her eyes a little, finds him watching her. “What about you?” she asks.  
  
“Yesterday was not the most tiring day I have ever had, although certain aspects of it were, of course… unpleasant.”  
  
His expression hasn't changed much — he looks only a little more turned inward than before, barely so — but…   
  
She pushes herself up and onto her side a little. His hand slides onto her hip as she turns; she puts her hand on his upper arm. “I’m sorry for dragging you into that place.”  
  
He raises his eyebrows, and his hand shifts a little on her hip — fondly, Arihnda thinks.   
  
“I was not dragged, that I recall,” he says lightly.  
  
His arm is warm beneath her hand, and the collar of his black undershirt is pulled slightly down and to the side by the way his shirt has twisted around him. It invites her gaze down to where his shirt clings to his chest, and she wants to lean forward and put her face there, to nestle against him and stop trying to talk, to maybe even get back to sleep.  
  
And she might do it, if she weren't suddenly focused so intently on the color of his skin. The texture of it beneath her hand. The color of his eyes. The ridges above his brows. Everything that makes him different.  
  
Everything that makes him vulnerable.  
  
“I'm sorry for — for what we saw there.”  
  
His face closes off a great deal more then. “Ah,” he says. His hand becomes still and heavy on her hip, and his gaze takes on a kind of eerie, precise flatness. “I was less surprised by much of it than you might imagine.”  
  
She tightens her hand on his arm, only for a brief moment. “I didn't think — I know you weren't surprised — I just —”   
  
She stops, looking for the right words. His face remains closed, which only makes it more important that she say the right thing.   
  
Finally, tightening her grip on his arm again, more gently this time, and holding on, she says: “I truly am sorry, Commander, that I didn't talk to you about it first, or ask your opinion or follow your lead on anything while we were there. I trust your judgement, and — and you should have a say, in what happens to — in what you — you should have a say.”  
  
She is not actually sure that it matters to her if all people have a say in what becomes of their lives, not sure she holds it as a deep conviction. Certainly she doesn't think Juahir or Driller or any of her coworkers should be allowed to choose their futures — but what they had seen last night had been horrible beyond words, had hurt to see, was distressing even to remember. It had been horrible, and it had all been something that could easily, with only a twist in his path or two and with the full protection of Imperial law, be happening to him. She is certain she does not want that, and she is certain as well that he deserves better than the way she'd treated him when they were on the lower levels — expecting him to follow at her heels like an akk-dog, with no care for his well-being. And although his expression hasn't changed, she finds she feels better, in her heart if nowhere else, for having tried to say so — feels better just for having tried, even if it doesn't seem to be landing as well with Thrawn as she had hoped.  
  
If nothing else, she can comfort herself with the irony that Bail might be proud.  
  
Then Thrawn’s expression does change: it moves through a quick tightening, mostly around his mouth, that might be irritation, to some mixed, ambiguous thing that evokes both a shrug and a sigh, and finally, his gaze dropping to her chin, or maybe lower, his face shifts to something softened perhaps from tiredness and — she notices for the first time — slightly worn.   
  
He does not really have lines in his face, not yet, or perhaps not ever, she does not know how his people age, but she can see, suddenly, that time weighs more heavily on him than she had realized — and, though she no longer thinks of herself as young, more heavily than it does on her.   
  
He is not, like Bail, old enough to be her father, or at least she doesn't think so, but he is older by enough of a span for it to perhaps matter more than she had considered — though it does not really make her feel like she's on her back foot, or at any disadvantage. Perhaps strangely, the sense that he might, in some way, be tired, that he might be fighting against a running clock that gives him less leeway than she herself might have, only seems like something else that makes him vulnerable. She lifts her hand from his arm, and, turning it and curling her fingers over, presses it to his face, resting her knuckles in the hollow of his cheek.  
  
His eyes close, almost fluttering shut, and he tightens his hand on her hip.  
  
Then he lifts his hand from her hip, and plucks her hand from his face. “I appreciate the sentiment, Miss Pryce” he says, sounding a little dry, and a little like he is putting effort into sounding so. Then he bows his head and presses her knuckles against his mouth, and holds them there — for the space of a breath. Two breaths. Three. Four. Long enough for her to want to move her hand, to twist it against his face and take hold of his chin and make him look at her, make him look at her while she pushes him onto his back and straddles his chest and —  
  
That is as far as she gets in the weird, half-formed fantasy that is, in some way which confuses her, an expression of care, before he raises his head and presses her hand to his chest.   
  
Looking at her steadily, he says: “We do not have to meet with Colonel Yularen until the afternoon, and he is willing to be flexible about exactly when we arrive. It is, after all, a free day by the civilian calendar, which his office follows. Nevertheless, I think it would be best to begin discussing last night’s events sooner rather than later.”  
  
“So we have our stories straight by the time we talk to him?”  
  
“Essentially. Do you feel able to begin?”  
  
No, she wants to say. I want to go back to sleep.  
  
“Yes, Commander,” she says. “Of course.”  
  
~*~  
  
Talking it all over — step-by-step, what was she thinking, feeling, hoping to achieve — is a great deal less grim than she’d feared, not nearly as painful as the miserable time he’d gone and over and over her departure from Lothal.  
  
The difference, she admits to herself, is largely down to her.  
  
Unlike the last time they’d had a similar conversation, she doesn't waste either of their time trying to misrepresent anything or misdirect his attention. Possibly it's in part because she'd learned last time how useless it would be, and unpleasant. To some degree, maybe a larger one than she wants to admit to herself, it's just because she’s too tired, wrecked, headachy and fog-brained to even think of clever lies, let alone try and sell them. Partly it's because there isn't anything nearly as embarrassing to direct his attention away from. And probably it's because she trusts him more; even last night’s horrible misunderstanding, and the sort-of not-quite fight that stemmed from it, has only, somehow, pushed her closer to him.   
  
And he seems to be extending a great deal more trust to her, as well. It is more than the willingness he's already demonstrated to talk to her more, which leaves her feeling less like he's investigating her and more like they're sharing. It's his demeanor.   
  
He doesn't seem to be so much prying, picking, examining, dissecting in a quest for understanding so much as he is just listening. Obviously he is listening for those facts that he finds helpful and useful, and obviously his questions are geared towards teasing out the deeper information he finds most illuminating about her personally, but he does it with a manner that makes her feel less like she is being interrogated and more like she's being helped. Supported. Heard.  
  
Obviously there's an element of strategy to that — a choice about his own behavior, tact applied with purpose. But she hardly thinks it's incompatible with sincerity. Who in life, except in the grip of temper, herself included, ever navigates anything more than the most casual conversation without at least a little thought as to the impression they are making, the effect they are having on the person with whom they are speaking?  
  
And he is, by all available evidence, concerned with the effect the conversation is having on her.   
  
They talk through the first part of the evening: walking through her terrible trip down to that level, the first time, and their little replay. How did it compare, what details does she recall, did her return trip jog any new memories, any new perceptions —   
  
As part of this, she recounts for him yet again the whole ordeal as it happened to her the first time. Not in the short, clipped form she'd used to retell it in Yularen’s office, not in the blunt, purely factual responses she'd given to Thrawn during their first discussion of the events, but in detail, each moment remembered in full. It is the first time she has spoken about it in such detail with anyone. Even Juahir had let her sidestep it, avoid it, beg off, had seemed to understand that it was upsetting, and had not pressed, except to push Arihnda into taking classes with Ottlis. It had all seemed, at the time, like the sign of a good friend. So this is the first time she has recounted it in detail, and nearly reliving it the night before has not inured her to it.  
  
When she gets to the point in the reliving — the retelling, not that there seems to be much difference — where the rowdies came seething out of the doorway and into her path like a bubbling acid foam, she stutters to a stop. She is lying on her back now, frowning, eyes hot behind her closed lids. She is taking deep breaths.   
  
Thrawn has a hand resting heavily on her shoulder. He lets her lay in silence for a long while, until her breathing slows, and then he says, in a gentle tone that nevertheless leaves her a sense of dignity: “You were afraid.”  
  
“I — I was afraid,” she echoes. She only trips once over a deep, shuddering breath as she says it, but that breath seems to be more from relief than from distress. It's an admission, and making it aloud feels letting go of a weight. “I was afraid,” she says again, and it comes easier that time. “There were eight of them. Six from the doors and two more who — there were eight of them and only one of me, and I didn't —” She swallows. “The one who was… the one who talked, he asked me if I was looking for a good time. I can still hear the way he said it. You know what people like that do. They don't stop at taking money.” Her eyes are squeezed shut, and her tone is rough.  
  
His hand weighs heavy and solid on her shoulder and she can hear him breathing softly. Finally he says: “I have heard.” Another breath. He lifts his hand, runs his fingers through her hair. “And I have seen.” He settles his hand back on her shoulder. “But you survived. Was it then that Miss Madras arrived?”  
  
She gives a wry, ironic laugh. “Just about,” she says. “They were — I was surrounded, there wasn't anything I could do, but I thought I might try…” Her mouth pulls down at the edges. She doesn't think he’ll like this. It's something she wouldn't even want to tell her parents; it's the kind of thing that doesn't show one in the best light. “I was trying to find a way out anyway. I thought if maybe I could direct their attention elsewhere I could run, and maybe I could do that by making them interested in someone else. Maybe I could give them a better target and they'd leave me alone.” She stops there.  
  
“It is a good instinct,” he says mildly, “to want look for a tool to defend yourself.”  
  
She opens her eyes, which are a little wet, and, blinking rapidly, frowns at him. He is watching her with a steady, even gaze. “I would have thought you'd find it cowardly.”  
  
He raises his eyebrows. “Only if I myself am a coward,” he says. Then, expression turning more sober, he says: “No living thing wishes to die, Miss Pryce, except in the most extreme of circumstances. The universe of full of this trade: life for life. It is perfectly natural. Another’s life for one’s own — it is not pretty, but it is more practical than dramatic. And it is a warrior’s instinct to see one’s whole environment as a tool for one’s survival: as exploitable for protection, or attack. No, I do not disapprove. I am glad to know you think this way.”  
  
She can feel gentle surprise on her face. He's made it all sound, somehow, like the highest and most somber praise. Her lips are slightly parted. “Do you mean that?” she says softly.  
  
His expression doesn't change at all, but he squeezes her shoulder once. “I mean it,” he says.  
  
Arihnda lets out a shuddering sigh, and then sighs again, more easily. “Thank you, Commander,” she says. She takes a breath. “Well, I saw — I saw a... couple... walking, at least they looked they looked like a couple, and I was trying to figure out… you know… it was all very fast. I realized this couple was actually walking towards me, and — and, well. It was Juahir, with Ottlis.”  
  
“I see.”  
  
“Yes. I — at the time I was… I was so grateful.” Her mouth twists and she squeezes her eyes shut again. “I don't think I’d ever been so grateful to anyone. And Juahir — I didn't talk to her about it really, but she seemed to understand, and she wanted me to start training with Ottlis, just in case.”  
  
“And did you?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“And how did you find it?”  
  
“At the time? Wonderful. I felt — I didn't ever want to feel… like that… again, and what Ottlis was teaching me —” another breath — “made me feel like I wouldn't have to.”  
  
A long pause, and then: “And you have since stopped training with Mister Dos, I assume.”  
  
It's not the question she expects. “Yes,” she says, opening her eyes.  
  
He looks neutral, impassive. “I understand,” he says. “I believe you should continue training with someone, but we will discuss that at another point. I take it Miss Madras and Mister Dos dispatched your assailants with little trouble?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“And after?”  
  
“They — Juahir wanted to know if I was alright, and she introduced Ottlis, and… I took us all out to dinner. I was — I was grateful.”  
  
“Yes, I understand. And she did seem to know where you were.”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“Which might only be she knew because she knew your regular commute and, as you said, directed you to the next-closest turbolift.”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“Which meant, of course, that she trusted you to put your trust in her and follow her directions. Let us say she trusted more than that to fall into place. If she in fact tampered with your lift, it would leave many factors to chance — and it leaves the question of what ulterior motive she had in arranging these events and in encouraging you to become close to Mister Dos. I assume she considered him a trusted partner in her endeavors, which implies that she was ignorant of his connection to Moff Ghadi. If she felt you needed to be monitored more closely, or if she wished to recruit you for her cause, it seems she herself was well-positioned enough to accomplish both. Although it is, I suppose, possible that she was using you to bait him, rather than the other way around — that she did not trust him, suspected him and his connection to Ghadi of being troublesome somehow, and felt placing you in his path would draw Ghadi out, though I think perhaps both her actions and the actions of Mister MarDapp in the aftermath of your encounter with Ghadi count against it.”  
  
All Arihnda says is: “They don't know about that encounter.”  
  
“Perhaps not. What is more informative to me is that they know something occurred with Mister Dos and, so far as I can gather from what little I know from your own account, they appear more concerned for your welfare than interested in Ottlis Dos or his employer.”  
  
Arihnda closes her eyes as if in pain and is quiet a long time. Thrawn starts to run his fingers through her hair again, which seems like a sign of infinite patience.  
  
Finally, Arihnda says: “He’s right, isn't he?”  
  
“Who is right?”  
  
“Vanto. He thinks it really was just a coincidence, he nearly said as much last night. You think so, too. Bad luck, good timing. Too many moving pieces for her to — it doesn't work out.” The horrible truth is, Arihnda feels herself that that is likely true. She just doesn't want it to be true. She doesn't want —  
  
“What do you think is most likely?” Thrawn asks gently.  
  
Arihnda feels her mouth twist down at the corners, and squeezes her eyes, already shut, tightly closed. “I want for her to have set it all up,” she says vehemently, voice cracking. “It would better if she'd never cared.”  
  
Thrawn doesn't do anything for a minute. Then, wordless, he pulls her close.  
  
She doesn't really cry, but her breathing is weird, strained, wheezing and ragged by turns, and there are, admittedly, a few stray tears.  
  
It is a while before they talk again. It is possible that Arihnda drifts to sleep a little, in the interim. She certainly seems to pass in and out of awareness a bit, but it might be for minutes or merely moments. She knows Thrawn strokes her hair for what feels like a long time, the kind of care she hasn't ever had from anyone except her mother and father, and it makes her breath shudder softly in her chest, and then grow easy. At some point, he brings her a glass of water. When they start talking again she feels better — she is very tired, still, but she feels cleaner, somehow.   
  
Thrawn helps her sit up — not that she needs it, it's mostly a gesture, and appreciated. Her head still hurts, but it bothers her less.  
  
They are sitting side by side, cross legged, on the bed. He is, naturally, sitting a little straighter than she is, and she rubs at her face from time to time, like she can rub away the lingering feelings of wear and exhaustion.  
  
“You were insistent on seeing the credit transfer terminal,” Thrawn says.  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“Did you have any suspicions as to its nature or —”  
  
“I didn't have any idea what we were going to find.”  
  
“But you wanted to —”  
  
“I wanted to — I wanted to know. I wanted to see for myself, what kind of…” She looks up, staring intensely at the far wall, as if a holo of a face were projected on it. “I don't know her at all. I thought I did, but — I wanted to see the kinds of places her kind of people worked for.”  
  
“To better understand the rebel organization?”  
  
Arihnda looks down at her feet, plucks at one of her toes.  
  
“I think I wanted to see who she’d picked over me.”  
  
There is a short pause. “Ah,” he says.  
  
She glances over at him. His face is mostly closed, but only mostly, and — “Not so glad to learn that, are you?”  
  
His eyebrows raise and his mouth tugs down just fractionally at the corners and he takes a breath that is a little reminiscent of a sigh. “Not particularly, no. But it is very understandable.”  
  
Arihnda laughs: once, briefly, more irony than amusement. “At least there’s that.” Then she sobers again. “It was personal. But I had to see.”  
  
“I understand. And when we were there? Did you form a guess then as to what we would find inside, and what the benefits of further investigation might be?”  
  
Arihnda laughs again, a dry sound, and looks at her feet, again. Smiling from wry irony at her own expense, she shakes her head, draws a leg up bent against her chest, and rests her chin on her knee. Talking again to the far wall, she says: “I didn't have any plans.”  
  
Thrawn says nothing.   
  
She turns her head, still resting her chin on her knee. He looks — mostly impassive, maybe a little annoyed. There might be a hint of amusement around the edges, or she might be hoping. She says: “Aren't you going to ask what I was thinking? Why I was so determined to forge ahead?”  
  
There is definitely a faint flicker of amusement in his features — but it's paired with an equal amount of annoyance. Oh well, she thinks. She's not really worried about it.  
  
He says: “Why did you do it?”  
  
She smiles, entirely ironic and at her own expense. “I wanted to impress you, Commander,” she says. And then she laughs again, a little, very ironically, and looks away from him and back to the wall. Then she says with a little less humor: “I wanted you to stop treating me like glass.”  
  
For a long minute he does nothing. She holds her feet in her hands, rests her chin on her knee, stares at the wall.  
  
Then he reaches out, and cups her face. Turning her to look at him, he says with very dry humor and a little sincerity: “Some of what you did was quite impressive, Miss Pryce.”  
  
“Some of it?” she asks in a matching tone.  
  
“Enough of it.” That's said with no humor at all.  
  
It's Arihnda who leans first, but he follows her lead with hardly a pause.  
  
It's a nice kiss: a string of kisses, each one breaking only briefly before transforming into the next, and it's got a tone that's different to most of the kissing they've done before. It's one of a very few times their kisses have been about something other than sex, and these kisses are not about sex at all. These are not part of sex, or leading to it. They're slightly wet kisses, but they're almost all lips, with hardly more than the barest flicker of tongue, and with no teeth at all. They're kisses that are more about being close than about being aroused. While they’re kissing, Thrawn wraps his arms around her and pulls her to him, and when they're done kissing they're sitting with her leaning against him and his legs crooked loosely around her. When they're done, a moment that seems to arise naturally and comfortably of its own accord, she rests her head on his chest, and he rests his chin on the top of her head.  
  
After a comfortable minute of silence, she says: “What about the parts that weren't impressive?”  
  
“I believe the most important shortcoming was mentioned last night: it would have been better to approach the matter with more forethought. Next time you might talk to me. I can be helpful.”  
  
Her lips quirk. “Next time, Commander, I’ll talk with you.”  
  
“I appreciate it, Miss Pryce,” he says with easy good humor.  
  
More silence, mostly of a very comfortable kind. Although it is starting to nag at her — she shifts, a little uncomfortable, presses close against him. If she had died, last night, if the rope had broken, or been caught and dragged her under the water, or given a sudden, sharp tug on her middle and broken her spine, would she have wanted —  
  
“Do you think you might call me Arihnda?” She's frowning very deeply as she says it, because she's not sure, really, what his chosen form of address for her means to him personally. It seems intimate and caring in spite of its formality. She doesn't mind when he says Miss Pryce softly, or with gentle humor, or with hunger —  
  
“Would you prefer it?”  
  
“I — Well, I’d like you to call me something that means something to you.” She thinks for a minute. “I don't mind you calling me what you do, you say it very nicely. But I think I’d like to be able to call you something other than Commander, something more personal.” She pushes herself up and eyes his face. He looks thoughtful. “If that's alright with you,” she adds.  
  
He tilts his head a little. “For any particular reason?”  
  
“I just — I was thinking, if last night had gone differently… We are partners. And we’re doing something dangerous. I think if something worse happens, or if I — if I die — I don't want it to be with a man I can't even call by a name.” He still looks pensive, unchanged. She frowns. “And I think we’re more than close enough. Don't you agree?”  
  
Another moment of pensive silence. Then he says: “Yes, of course we are close enough. You may call me Thrawn, if you wish. And I will call you Arihnda, if you prefer, although I believe Miss Pryce to be more… respectful.”  
  
She wrinkles her nose. “Alright,” she says. “Keep calling me that, then. But I think I would prefer to call you Thrawn, if you don't mind too much.”  
  
“I do not,” he says.  
  
“Am I saying it right? Thrawn?”  
  
He snorts softly and his lips quirk a little. “I have no objections,” he says.  
  
She searches his face, and decides he is telling the truth. “Good,” she says. She settles back against his chest. “Good,” she says again.  
  
Then more vivid memories begin to rise in her. Not the abstract, vainglorious feeling of having been clever and effective, but visceral memories of the things they'd seen. Of the faces. Of the smells.  
  
“I'm — I truly am sorry for bringing you there,” she says.  
  
He stiffens slightly, and says, voice stiff as well: “You have said.”  
  
“I know. I just —”  
  
“You may be assured that I have heard you, Miss Pryce. You need not repeat it.”  
  
Arihnda nearly pulls away from his chest, then thinks better of it. “Alright,” she says. “I won't.”  
  
After a strained moment, he seems to relax again. He says: “I expect we will learn today what will become of the persons we retrieved last night.”  
  
Now it is Arihnda’s turn to stiffen uncomfortably, and this time she does pull away from his chest to look at him. He has a mild, pensive expression on his face. She searches that expression, for a minute, as deeply as she can. She finds nothing but… but the genuine misapprehension of the situation, which he blithely assumes to be correct.  
  
“They’ll be returned to to their previous owners,” she says, trying not to sound horrified by the fact that she has to be the one to tell him, trying not to have any tone at all. “To be sold again. Or if those owners can’t be found they’ll be impounded — kept in Imperial detention until a rightful owner is determined, and if they don't have a rightful owner they’ll be forfeited to the Empire. Seizure of illegal assets.”  
  
Thrawn raises his eyebrows. “Impoundment, forfeiture, and seizure are for property.”  
  
“Thrawn —” she draws herself completely upright. “Thrawn, they are property.”  
  
His expression does not change. “In spite of the illegal status of their documentation?”  
  
“It only makes that business’ claim to them and to the proceeds of sale fraudulent, not — the Empire will never free them.”  
  
“Not even those who are clearly victims of a crime?” His tone is very carefully neutral and calm. Too much so.  
  
“No.”  
  
“Nor the children,” he says in the same voice, “who will, I presume, never be returned to their families?”  
  
Arihnda swallows against a sudden aching lump in her throat. She does not want to imagine, even in passing, being separated forever from her own family. Even if she sees them rarely, at least she knows they're there. “No,” she says, as matter-of-factly as she can manage. “Not unless they’re purchased by someone who wants to — I think it's very unlikely.”  
  
He is silent for a long minute, his expression perfectly impassive and closed. “I see.”  
  
“Thrawn, I’m sor—”  
  
“I do not believe it is your personal doing, Miss Pryce,” he says. The words are very close to being snapped.  
  
Arihnda takes a deep, slow breath. “I don't approve of any of it, you know,” she says.  
  
“Indeed. Nevertheless, it is good to be informed. I admit I labored under some ignorance as to the Empire’s position on this matter. It is good to be informed.”  
  
Arihnda frowns. She doesn't think she's ever heard him repeat himself like that. She reaches for his face, means to cup his cheek, means maybe to slip her arms around him and hold him close until they both feel better —  
  
He stiffens and pulls back from the first brush of her fingers, and loosens his arms around her. “We must still speak with Colonel Yularen,” he says brusquely. His gaze is going somewhere over and past her. “I would like to shower, and then we can discuss what we will and will not tell him about your role last night. I will also have to inform Vanto of the story, as you call it.”  
  
“Of course,” she says. She's watching him, assessing, waiting.  
  
There is no further chance to reach for him.  
  
He disentangles himself from her, swings off the bed, and walks into the fresher as if she were not even there.  
  
~*~   
  
When he's done in the fresher, he drags a chair in from the table in the front room and sits in it, halfway between the foot of the bed and the far wall. That's where he sits for the whole rest of their conversation, during which they decide to tell Yularen that it had been Thrawn’s idea both to go to the terminal and to go inside, and that he had decided to place Arihnda in the role of front-woman given her greater familiarity with Coruscant and it's businesses. It is all patently false, but he is very unruffled about crafting the lie, which he says will protect her credibility and trust with Yularen, permit their current arrangements to move forward unimpeded, and still give her due credit for her most impressive work.   
  
“You will need his continued support in the future,” Thrawn says directly, “so it will not do to unsettle his good opinion of you.”  
  
“I can see that,” Arihnda says. But what she is really trying to see is how upset Thrawn might be, beneath his cool disconnection and professional focus, and if there is any possibility that he might talk to her as openly about his troubles as she is beginning to do with her own.  
  
But she decides that problem is best approached at a more opportune time, in a moment that has more time, so she heads to the fresher herself when he suggests it.  
  
He comms Vanto while she's showering, and she imagines her habit of bathing like a member of the Elder houses worked to his advantage when she emerges from the fesher to find the call over. He tells her that his aide will meet them at the Arcology. So without much more discussion, the head out.  
  
~*~  
  
There has been no more discussion between them by the time they're stepping onto the turbolift to head up to Yularen’s office — which, Arihnda thinks, is fine. They will come through this meeting, in which they know their roles, and after… They are standing in the lift, about an arm span apart, each with their private thoughts. It is fine. After this meeting, they will go back to her rooms, and they will talk, eventually, about some of those thoughts. It’s fine, she thinks.  
  
It’s fine.  
  
Until a hand slips quickly between the doors of the lift, just as they are closing.  
  
The doors stop, and reverse their path obediently.   
  
And then a series of moments unfold is short order, etched on the dilated pupil of Arihnda’s suddenly adrenaline-soaked awareness like a series of flickering still-frames in a broken holo.  
  
The hand slips in, the doors open. A whip-thin man of middling height in a Naval officer’s uniform is standing sideways in the door, hand outstretched. Moving like a strip of flexible steel, he pivots on the back of one boot and strides brightly into the lift.  
  
As he turns and steps, he lifts his face.   
  
Arihnda knows his face.  
  
So does Thrawn.  
  
And he knows them.  
  
Arihnda feels herself almost flinch, barely controls it.   
  
In the corner of her awareness, she senses Thrawn stiffen, standing perfectly upright, tense.  
  
And the officer smiles: a feral, carrion thing.  
  
He steps brightly into the lift between them, spinning again to face the front, reaching out as the does to tap the button for the one floor that is higher than Yularen’s, smiling widely all the while.  
  
“Two of you, and traveling together,” he exclaims as he settles into a casual parade rest between them. He speaks in a tone as poisoned and joyous as the expression on his face. “What a stroke of luck for me. Don't tell me — you're both heading to see Colonel Yularen?”  
  
Arihnda half-turns to look at Galli. She notes that Thrawn has turned his head, just enough to convey minimal engagement. Just barely enough to avoid being dangerously rude. But his attentiveness looks more like his watching for a sign of danger than a conversational cue.  
  
Arihnda feels much the same.  
  
“We are, in fact,” she says, forcing the best smile she can manage. She doesn't know what makes Galli so dangerous, precisely, doesn't know why he seems able to put both Thrawn and Yularen so screechingly on edge, but she knows he makes her uneasy, too.  
  
“How lovely,” he says. He says it smoothly — it's smooth the way oozing rot is smooth. “And I finally understand what you're doing here, I think. The good Commander has been assisting our Deputy Director with what I gather is a rather complex intelligence matter. A bit beneath the Director’s level, really, but he's taken a personal interest in the Commander.” Galli turns his rancid smile on Thrawn. “As have I, of course. One must credit his great competence and ability.”   
  
Thrawn raises an eyebrow and, because Galli lets the pause linger, says: “Thank you, Lieutenant Commander. That is most flattering.”  
  
Galli’s smile widens. It shows too many teeth. “Of course,” he says, “merely stating the truth.” He turns his attention back to Arihnda. His smile fades in favor of something keener, and more dangerous. A predator’s gaze: burning eyes that track breathing meat. “Which makes you,” he says, remembering to smile his monster’s smile again, “his confidential informant, I believe.”  
  
It sounds like the closing of a trap. It sounds like he's saying I know what two you do together. Arihnda’s own forced smile turns strangely brittle.  
  
“Am I?” She asks, trying for light humor.  
  
Galli continues to smile at her, right at her, as if she were a prize he'd won. “I think you are,” he says.   
  
Her gaze flickers to Thrawn, and for half a second he catches her eye.   
  
Thrawn puts a very subtle change into his expression, something that makes him appear much more natural and relaxed, and Arihnda throws all her trust silently into his decisions.  
  
“Not exactly confidential if we admit to it,” Thrawn says easily.  
  
Galli looks surprised for a moment, then annoyed, then covers both with his strained and excessive imitation of good-natured sociability as he rakes his attention back to Thrawn. “Certainly I don't expect you to, but one makes guesses. And one wishes to acknowledge and honor,” his attention flicks back to Arihnda, and the good humor dies for a moment, “dangerous service.” Then he lights up again, like a battered old lamp that's flickered briefly, the sort of thing one might find in the rusted and mouldering guts of a cheap, lower-level sqautter’s den. “But still, a stroke of luck to put it all together. Now I know you're not just both good company, but good company together. I’ll expect you both to come with me to Cora Vessora next week.” He beams at them: rictus and radioactive. “I trust I can send tickets and directions to you personally, Commander?”  
  
“Of course,” Thrawn says, instantly and perfectly obedient. “Although we will want to have such a public meeting approved by the Director.”  
  
Galli’s smile flickers again, but all he says is: “So good to see such attention to proper protocol. Tell me —”  
  
Which is the exact and frankly far too long in coming moment that the turbolift comes to a gentle stop and the doors whisk softly open.  
  
“We will of course tell you what the Director says about your plans,” says Thrawn politely, stepping forward. He puts one hand across the door, and gestures for Arihnda with the other. She goes a little faster than is gracious, but just barely keeps herself moving as fast as she'd like. Some primal instinct tells her she can't kill Galli, so she'd like to run, instead.  
  
Behind them, Galli, sounding like the sharp edge of a freshly-honed dagger, says: “Oh, naturally.” And as the doors snick close, Arihnda hears him call out: “Pleasant meeting, all!”  
  
Thrawn presses his hand to the small of Arihnda’s back the second the doors are closed, and seems to push her into Yularen’s office as if he is pushing out of the way of a flood, or a fire.  
  
~*~  
  
Yularen looks up, then rises.  
  
“What —”  
  
“A brief encounter with Lieutenant Commander Rax,” says Thrawn, ushering Arihnda to a seat. “He wishes our company next week at a performance of Cora Vessora.”  
  
Yularen frowns. “Both of you?”  
  
“Yes,” says Arihnda, who feels perfectly fine, is more than able to participate in a conversation — but who still appreciates the way Thrawn is standing solid as a statue by her side, fingertips pressed lightly to the point of her shoulder.  
  
Yularen looks at Arihnda. “It's very hard to say to no to Gallius Rax, Arihnda,” he says gravely, “but I can try. Given your role in our investigation, anonymity —”  
  
“It's fine; I think we should go.”  
  
Thrawn’s hand doesn't move, but he turns his head to look at her. “Perhaps —”  
  
“Do you know who he is, Arihnda?” asks Yularen.   
  
“Someone important, I imagine,” Arihnda says lightly.  
  
Yularen doesn't smile, which tells her more of what she already knew: Gallius Rax is a very dangerous man.  
  
“Galli is a personal aide to Palpatine,” Yularen says. The deep lines of long years and difficult service suddenly seemed carved into his face, as if he were a crag of stone. “I’ll say no more than that.”  
  
Arihnda herself is silent for a moment. Then she says: “Best to keep him happy, then, don't you think?”  
  
And then Thrawn’s hand does move. He drops his palm down to rest on her shoulder, and grips her with his long fingers. Yularen looks from Arihnda to Thrawn, and Thrawn looks at Yularen.   
  
For once, Arihnda does not really mind being the subject of a silent discussion between the two men.  
  
Thrawn squeezes Arihnda’s shoulder and he says “I believe I can look after Miss Pryce’s safety well-enough.”  
  
Yularen shakes his head. “It's your safety you should be worrying about with Rax.”  
  
“I believe I can look after that as well,” Thrawn says.  
  
And Arihnda has to work very hard, suddenly, not to twist her upper body around to get a better look at him, not to cover his hand with hers on her shoulder, not to say: Let me look after that. She knows men like Gallius Rax, she thinks, even if he is by far the most unsettling version of the breed she has ever seen. Imperial politics is rife with such creatures; on her worst days, or her best, depending on the vantage point, Arihnda herself is one of them. So she fights the urge to take Thrawn’s hand in hers and say: Let me handle him for you. Let me keep you safe, seeing as you're mine.  
  
“Just be careful around him,” Yularen says, settling back into his chair. “There's only so much I can do.” He lays crosses his forearms on the desk. “Well, shall we get to business? Or are we still waiting for Vanto?”  
  
Thrawn, too, sits then — too close to Arihnda. Yularen, Arihnda sees, notices it. And Yularen does not comment.  
  
She wonders if he knows.  
  
“We are still waiting for Vanto,” Thrawn says.  
  
“Good man, that one,” says Yularen. Then he turns his attention to Arihnda: “And you're holding up well? You look it. Quite the night.”  
  
Arihnda smiles, and it's only somewhat strained. “Certainly interesting,” she says with a bit of a laugh.  
  
“Well, don't let it all weigh too hard on you,” Yularen says. “We’ll go over it quickly today, and then you should be able to put it out of your mind.”  
  
“Miss Pryce bore up under pressure exceptionally well for a civilian,” Thrawn says. “I imagine she would be even more useful in future with the benefit of additional training. Perhaps in one of the Arcology fitness centers.”  
  
Yularen raises his eyebrows. “Do we expect more field operations in this investigation?”  
  
“Seeing as so many of the suspects are themselves fighters of a professional caliber, it might be a useful addition to our other precautions,” Thrawn says. Arihnda has turned her head to look at him. He is looking at Yularen: passive, noncommittal, steady. “And of course one never knows what the future may bring. I suspect it is a good investment in a future asset.” He pauses, and inclines his head fractionally towards Arihnda. “I hope you do not find the comment too presumptuous.”  
  
“No —” Arihnda is starting to say, but then Yularen turns to look at her, something almost happy on his face.  
  
“Have you given more thought to my offer, then? From what I saw of your performance last evening, you're even better-suited to our business here than I thought.”  
  
“I… I’d just like to get through this first, I think,” she says.  
  
“Perfectly understandable. But I think you have a point about the additional training, Thrawn,” the says turning his attention away from Arihnda again. “No point short-changing ourselves. We might find better uses for her even before this investigation is over.”  
  
“Indeed,” says Thrawn. “I have some thoughts on the matter, but we can discuss it later.”  
  
“Yes,” says Yularen, “I expect —”  
  
The door opens.   
  
They are no longer waiting for Vanto.   
  
The rest of the conversation goes by quickly enough. Yularen only seems interested in fleshing out whatever frame of the evening Thrawn had given him the night before. Vanto, who positions himself where he and Arihnda can best ignore each other, clearly knows his lines, even his discomfort with twisting the truth for Yularen is almost imperceptible. Arihnda finds it's much easier to talk about all of this in a rehearsed way, having washed off the worst of it earlier in her long talk with Thrawn.  
  
It seems they're all going to be on their way quickly enough, when Thrawn says “I’d like to speak with the slaves we recovered last night, if possible. I may be able to better-assess if any of them have valuable intelligence, any overheard word or stray sight that might inform our investigation. I do not mean to cast aspersions on your staff, Colonel, but I consider myself uniquely familiar with the subject matter.”  
  
“Of course,” says Yularen, betraying only a little surprise.  
  
“Thank you. Vanto, if you would escort Miss Pryce safely back to her lodgings — she can give you the address —”  
  
“I’d like to stay,” Arihnda says. “I’d like to — if it's alright, I’d like to watch.”  
  
A piercing look from Vanto. An inquiring look from Thrawn. Glances between Thrawn and Yularen.   
  
Thrawn says: “I have no objection. Colonel?”  
  
“No, of course,” says Yularen. “I expect you won’t want to stay for all of it, though, Arihnda. Vanto, you stick around, too.”  
  
“Of course, Sir,” says Vanto.  
  
“It’ll take me a minute to see who’s around,” Yularen says. “Some of them were already sent to detention centers. The children are definitely off-site. I think we have the…” he coughs, real distaste coming into his features. “There was some unfortunate cross-fire in the front rooms during the raid, I’m afraid. I believe we have the, ah, stage-girl in our medical wing. I’ll see if she’s in any condition to talk.”  
  
There is a pause too long to be polite. Then Thrawn says: “Thank you.”  
  
~*~  
  
The interview happens in the medical bay.   
  
The Twi’lek woman has sustained several serious blaster-bolt injuries, including a couple to her torso, but has only been put into a bacta-tank because her skin color makes her rare and expensive, rather than out of real concern for her health. She is lethan: a red-skinned Twi’lek, particularly sought after. If she has no rightful owner, doubtless some high-ranking Imperial will want her. Best, the medical staff has decided, that she be in good condition.  
  
The medical staff retrieve her from the tank, clean her up a little, put her in a bed in a private room. They have to bring her out of sedation to make her lucid enough to speak. Even then, she is barely present.  
  
Thrawn speaks to Yularen: points out their investigation is quite secret, and that certain targets likely have moles in the organization — he means Ghadi — can the director ensure any added privacy for this interview? Vanto, who has obediently stuck around, has an almost openly disapproving look on his face when Thrawn makes the request. Yularen hesitates, mouth set tightly, agrees, and has the security feeds from the private recovery room cut. And then, citing a need to attend to some other, pressing business, Yularen leaves Thrawn to his work. Thrawn goes past the privacy curtain that blocks the bed from the rest of the room without speaking further to either Arihnda or Vanto, and with only a fractional hesitation Arihnda follows him, Vanto at her heels, in a strange variation on their entrance into the cantina the night before.  
  
Then there follows the most terrible thing Arihnda has ever watched.  
  
“Hello,” Thrawn says, bending slightly over the bed. “How are you feeling?”  
  
“Mmmm,” says the woman, face scrunched, eyes closed, “hurts.” Her expensive red skin is strangely pale, like dusty brick, and her lekku, freed from the ugly clamps, are chafed raw, scabbing and oozing and bruised deep purple near their bases. She is frail and small in the bed, and it's almost impossible to imagine she'd survived even what little of her life Arihnda had seen night before.  
  
“I am sorry to hear that,” Thrawn says. “Can you open your eyes for me?”  
  
The woman moans again, and tries to turn her face away from the source of sound.   
  
Thrawn touches her shoulder gently and says: “If you can open your eyes and tell me your name, I will help you with the pain.”  
  
The woman moans yet again, and frowns deeply, but ultimately she cracks an eye at him. “Laksha,” she says.  
  
“Laksha,” Thrawn repeats. “A beautiful name.”   
  
She winces again, all over. “Hurts.”  
  
“I know,” Thrawn says. “I will help with that. Wait for me one moment.”  
  
He stands, and turns to the IV pole beside the bed, where the a bag of clear liquid labeled Somatoll-Hypocane 60% hangs from a metal hook. He unravels the extra length of cord looped around the hook, and turns back to the bed — pressing the flow valve into Laksha’s hand as he does.  
  
Beside Arihnda, Vanto crosses his arms tightly against his chest, takes a sharp breath that is a little too loud. It is the last time Arihnda registers his presence.  
  
She can not look away from what is happening on the bed.  
  
“Here,” says Thrawn, wrapping Laksha’s hand in his, pressing her fingers against the mechanism of the valve, the little wheel that controls the speed of the drip drip drip that feeds the blend of sedative and painkiller into Laksha’s body. “Do you feel this?”  
  
There's a look of confusion on her face.  
  
“This will take the pain away. Feel the little wheel here? Right there. Good girl. If you turn it towards you — exactly. Just a little bit, that's enough now.” He threads two of his fingers between Laksha’s grasp and the flow valve, stopping her from administering any more of the drug. “Does that feel better?”  
  
“Mmmm.” She frowns again, closing her eyes and turning her head aside.  
  
“I will take that as a yes. Now tell me, Laksha, where do you come from?”  
  
Laksha is from Ryloth. Laksha is an orphan, or assumes she is. She remembers her mama, but Imperials had taken her away, because they said she was a traitor. Laksha does not know her own age. Laksha hurts again — can she have more help, please? Of course she can, Thrawn says: he shows her how to use the wheel again. Laksha was taken and sold to the Hutt cartel as a child, not long after the troopers in their white armor took mama, to cover her guardian’s gambling debts. Laksha worked in kitchens, and as a serving-maid, until people stopped seeing her as a little girl — earlier than that happens for most women, Arihnda thinks. Or maybe she wasn't really noticed any younger. Maybe the only difference was that there was no one to look out for her. No parents or guardians who cared. Another turn of the wheel. She was private entertainment after that, and then a dancing girl, and then sold to a bounty hunter to cover his fee. The wheel, again. The bounty hunter found keeping another person aboard ship more cumbersome and less idyllic than he'd imagined, and she was sold again: back to the Hutts, in exchange for guns. The wheel, again. The medical monitors attached to her make a worried kind of beep. Laksha is beginning to drift, but her own story is printed deeply in her mind: she can still tell it. The Hutts sold her with a few other girls to a buyer on Coruscant. Can she have another turn of the wheel, please? No, says Thrawn. Not until she helps him with a few more questions. Would she tell him about the club, please? So Laksha tells. The girls rotate through the club by nights, and live in a single room above it the rest of the time. And no, Laksha does not know what doonium is. Can she have the wheel please? No she's never seen a man who looks like that. Please, the wheel. No she's never heard that name, no not that one either. Please. Please. She misses mama. Everything hurts. She wants to go home.  
  
“Of course,” says Thrawn. He pulls his fingers out of hers, helps fold her grasp over the flow valve. The wheel. “Here. Do you feel the controls there? Do you need help with them?” She does, in fact. He helps her turn the wheel, all the way, once.   
  
Arihnda can see the drug hit her: she can see the change in her face. Bliss.   
  
Loss.   
  
Nothing.  
  
“Mama,” Laksha whispers.  
  
“Yes,” says Thrawn, touching her forehead.  
  
Laksha’s eyes drift shut and a moment later the monitors attached to her start screaming.   
  
Medical staff and droids flood in.   
  
Arihnda herself seems to be lost.   
  
Someone pulls on Arihnda’s shoulders, pulls her back, out of the way. Thrawn is still leaning over the bed, one hand on Laksha’s forehead, the other curled around her hand, and around the valve within it.  
  
The person pulling on her shoulders turns her around. Pushes her. Is pushing her away from the bed. She is still trying to watch Thrawn. Still trying to take in the sight of him leaning tenderly over Laksha while the staff swarm around him.   
  
Laksha.   
  
The second person she's seen him kill in two days.  
  
The person grasping her shoulders gives her a sudden, hard shove. Their voice, coming from somewhere far away, says: Hey! Let’s go! She knows that voice: the tension and the irritation in it. She flinches, turns, stumbles, finds herself stepping face-first into the privacy curtain.   
  
For a minute, all she sees is white.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well! here we are!
> 
> I want to reiterate something I said in the warning up top for those who might have skipped it: That was not an act of mercy, even if Thrawn thinks so. That was a murder. This is a topic for next chapter.
> 
> anyway, despite the awful events I am pretty happy with this chapter -- at least happy to be done with it! I struggled with and had to heavily rewrite the opening two conversations several times, but once I got those right the rest flowed pretty easily. I got to get raise (though not resolve) some points I have been just aching to get to for months and months, and I finally found the missing piece to setting up a conversation (hopefully happening next chapter) I've had half-written since, like, March. 
> 
> as ever, thanks for reading! see you (hopefully) soon(ish).

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Calathea](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14947874) by [13th_blackbird](https://archiveofourown.org/users/13th_blackbird/pseuds/13th_blackbird)




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